Lead Me Upstairs
by nomad1328
Summary: All it takes to start is an invite up those stairs and thus comes a relationship one step at a time.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (1/?)

Author: nomad1328

* * *

She feels him staring at the back of her head as she walks up the steps towards her door.

Stacy had accepted the date on a whim and out of curiosity, but it hadn't been good. The restaurant was slow; the food was cold, and he was a jerk. But she'd been able to bite back at him every step of the way, throwing insults back as soon as she received them. He talked about idiots. She talked about imbeciles. She drank a cabernet; he drank four beers. . They both had medium rare steak. The only difference was that he insisted on A1 steak sauce from the tuxedo clad waiter. He barked at the waiter while Stacy hid her face in her hand. He left five dollars in tip for an eighty dollar tab. She drove them back to her place because he'd had too much to drink.

When she reaches the door she turns and faces him, a glimmer of a false grin is on her lips. It's the same grin that she wears when greeting a competing attorney and an anxious client. The grin that says 'thanks for playing' but 'I win.'

"So…" She's planning on saying thanks, but no thanks for a second date. And he's definitely not coming upstairs. He cuts her off before she can get the words out.

"You going to invite me in?" He asks, cocksure and serious. A car, its headlights beaming, speeds past on the road in front of her condo, screeching to a stop as the light turns red.

Stacy laughs, turns back to the door. "I don't think…"

"Come on," he urges. "I'm too drunk to drive…" To emphasize the point, his foot slips off it's precarious position on the stair and he stumbles for a moment before regaining his balance.

"I'll call you a cab." She fghts the urge to laugh in his face.

"You know you…."

"They were right about you."

He remains serious, steps up to join her on the top stair and leans into her face. "What do they say about me?"

"That you're a jerk."

"I _am_ a jerk," he repeats it, smug and confident.

"I don't know what I was thinking…"

"You _like_ jerks. Or else you wouldn't be here." He leans in closer and she finds it hard to avoid his gaze so she puts her hands on her hips and looks at the pale orange street lights illuminating the road. The air is summer thick and heavy, laden with insects and ozone. He's leaning in so close that she can see beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "You probably dated the high school drop out when you were a freshman. Or maybe it was the frat boy who got kicked off campus."

She sighs and catches his glance for a moment before turning away again and crossing her arms. "I'm not…"

"Come on. Everyone you know knew about this date and most of them know about me. Hell, Cuddy probably told you the size…"

She gasps, feigned surprise, and slaps his arm. "She did not…" Then she pauses and her eyes narrow. "Wait, how would she…"

He grins through thin lips and leans down again. "But you do want to find out…."

She's considering her options now. And the options are relatively good. She can invite him up the stairs, have a one-night stand, leave it alone after that – because he knows that he isn't her type. She can handle it and she knows (from what they say) that he'd have no problem with it. What does she have to lose?

Her head cocks to the side and she bites her lip while she lifts her hand and fingers his blazer. He _is _handsome. And she's pretty sure he would be good in bed. He's a doctor. And he's the hospital's bad boy.

"If I invite you up…"

"When."

"_If _I invite you up…. "

"Do you have scotch?"

"Vodka."

"Tonic?"

"Cranberry."

"At least tell me you have a little Sly…"

"Marvin Gaye?"

His head tilts back and he sighs and rubs a hand across his forehead. And before she can react or back away, his lips are sealed onto hers and she finds herself kissing him back. He tastes like steak and beer, but his lips are firm and persistent. She is responding in all the right ways. He wraps his arms about her waist and she latches her hands behind his neck. They get closer so that the fabrics of their clothing are touching. He pushes a leg in between hers and then she knows: She wants him. _Just tonight_, she thinks.

When he pauses for a breath, she looks at him through arousal narrowed eyes and says: "Let's go upstairs."

* * *

I care little for my body she said  
I couldn't care less about my soul  
and as she led me upstairs in whispers  
my whole summer turned cold 

I'll lead you upstairs  
I'll lead you upstairs  
If you've got no worries  
then I've got no cares  
I'll lead you upstairs

I told her people had been talking  
about how dark she was inside  
she said my hopes are buried in the soil  
deep in the earth outside  
and with one twist of the world  
she brought me to her side  
she asked me for the truth one time  
and I all I did was lie

I'll lead you upstairs  
I'll lead you upstairs  
If you've got no worries  
then I've got no cares  
I'll lead you upstairs

-David Gray/Lead Me Upstairs


	2. Chapter 2

By the time he reaches the third step in the narrow stairway, his shoulders are burning and his legs are trembling. What the _hell _does she have in this box? And will his apartment floor be able to take the weight of whatever it is? He lifts his knee onto the next step and turns so that his back is against the railing. He rests the box on his knee for a moment and looks up at the remainder of the stairs: three down, ten to go.

They've been at this for all of thirty minutes, including the drive over from Stacy's old place. For all but the two minutes he'd been latched onto her lips, House had wondered if this wasn't some grandiose mistake that would be over in a month. Less than a week ago, he'd stood at her door wondering if she was going to let him into the apartment. Three days later, they hadn't spent a single night apart and he'd found himself (more than once) having to explain to his boss that he'd needed a legal opinion and that was why he was in Stacy's office instead of with his patients. Either his boss was a nitwit or he didn't care: House was sure that he had lipstick smudged on his own mouth more than once.

On the fifth morning, Stacy had gone back to her apartment to pick up a few things before going to work. House had begun to wonder where she was when she didn't come get him for lunch. She showed up in his office near 2pm, looking uncharacteristically disheveled and pissy. He'd shut the office door and the blinds on the window, but she'd been unresponsive to his mouth and stiff in his arms.

"What's wrong?" he'd asked.

She backed away, arms crossed and shook her head. "Nothing." .

"You get what you need from home?"

She'd nodded and moved past him to stand at the window, fiddling with the blinds.

House had been suspicious of her movements. They spoke of uneasiness, secrets, break-ups. Of all the women that he'd seen in the past few years, Stacy had felt the most right. After only a few days, he felt closer to her than to any of the others. She matched his wit, she was attractive, and the sex had been great. He wasn't ready to give this up.

"We've only been sleeping together for a few days, so I know you can't already be pregnant. And even if you were, you wouldn't show for a few months. So we've got time to conjure an alien abduction."

She looked over her shoulder at him, a little amused, and gave a sighing laugh.

House moved to stand over his desk, looking down at the mess of paperwork on top. He picked up a paperclip and began twisting it out of shape, wrapping it around his index finger.

"You were okay this morning, you were late coming back here," he started. "So either you ran into someone or…"

"I didn't have anyone pick up my mail. My newspapers were piled up."

House had briefly wondered if he hadn't made a horrible judge of personality. Maybe she was mentally ill, obsessive compulsive. He really hadn't done any in depth research on her. He'd just assumed that the lack of gossip about her around the hospital and her lawyer credentials were enough to avoid worry. The paperclip was cutting off circulation to his fingertip and it was beginning to bulge and redden.

"It was stupid really. Lights off, newspapers at the front door." Her hand lifted up for a moment, then fell back to it's crossed position.

Bells began going off in his head. He dropped the misshapen paperclip onto his desk and approached her at the window. "Break in?"

"You could say that."

House brought his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him.

"They take anything?"

"Everything." Her head fell back against his chest with the admission. "They must've had a moving truck…TV, stereo, cd's, dvd's, jewelry, they even took my crystal."

"What did the police say?"

She huffed and turned to face him, sitting on the desk against the window. "They shrugged their shoulders and looked at me like I was an idiot."

He had stepped closer to her, sighing, and uncharacteristically sympathetic.

"You're not an idiot."

"I know, I just…" She sighed again, running her fingers against the buttons on his shirt. "I should've _known_…"

This was trouble, he knew. Sex had a tendency to make people stupid and he wasn't an exception to genetics. Stacy could blame herself all she wanted for leaving the apartment obviously vacant for a few days. And that blame could've fallen on him for his insistence that she stick around at his place every night. But in the end, a third party had decided to break a law. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't his fault. But he had found himself feeling so guilty, that the words came out of their volition:

"Come live with me."

He had cursed himself the moment he said it and her eyes had widened, disbelieving.

"Greg, I've only known you for a week…"

"Just for a while- until you can replace everything. You've been living with me for the past few days anyway."

She laughed and stood up, separating herself and bringing her arms to cross against her midsection again. "Spending a few nights together is not_ living _together."

"Why not?"

"Laundry," she responded. "Dishes, bathrooms, nasty habits, rent."

"Rent will be cheaper, we know each others' nasty habits, and I promise to put the toilet seat down. You're doing the dishes though."

"How about the laundry?"

He smirked and pulled her to him again. "We'll buy new clothes every week."

The memory of the conversation from two days ago makes House smirk now, but the weight of the box is pinching on his knee. He takes a breath and gathers his reserve for the remaining stairs.

When he gets to the top, his face is red and sweat is dripping down into his shirt collar. He feels like he couldn't possibly take another step so he goes to put the box on the nearest surface that doesn't involve bending over or lifting, the kitchen table. The sounds of rattling glass at first alarm him as he sets the box down heavy on the table, but he is more alarmed by the fact that the box must contain kitchenware and that he doesn't have space for it. His cabinets are full of dishes and cookware that his mother insisted on buying, but that he rarely uses.

"Greg, did you see my photo albums in that last box?"

Stacy turns the corner into the kitchen and heads towards the box that House has just labored into the apartment. His breath hitches and he breathes heavily before plopping into a chair at the table. He shakes his head. She places a hand on his shoulder for a moment before beginning to open the newly arrived box. It takes her a moment to realize what's in it.

"You brought this up yourself?" She's exasperated. "You should've asked for help!"

"At least I don't have to go to the gym today."

"It's my mother's old dishes. They're very sturdy."

"Uh huh," he mutters.

"Surprised that the burglars didn't grab them."

She goes to the sink and returns with a glass of iced water, which she hands to him. His arms are still trembling from exertion, but the water slides down his hot throat, immediately cooling his skin from the inside out. Stacy moves off to rummage around in his cabinets, presumably looking for space. He watches her, gulping from the glass to replenish the fluids that he's lost going up the stairs. "I'm not really sure I have the space for fine china…"

Stacy puts her hands on her hips and looks around. "I can put it in storage with the furniture. No big deal."

He smirks. This is why he likes her so much. Too bad that moving the box of dishes will involve maneuvering it down the stairs again. Not to mention that the rest of the furniture is actually in the back of the moving truck. It, too, will have to be moved at some point. He hopes that it doesn't involve stairs.

House suddenly realizes that someone's shoes are pounding up his wooden staircase. "Hey, House," a voice calls from the stairway. House is suddenly self-conscious and on edge. He hasn't told anyone about Stacy moving in this weekend. "Oh, hi… Stacy."

Wilson stands at the top of the stairs and looks around at the half empty boxes littering the apartment floor and the full box on top of the table, a perplexed twist on his features. Both Stacy and House stay quiet for a moment, unsure of what to say. Somewhere between calling moving companies and reorganizing personal belongings, both of them forgot to tell Wilson (or anyone else) exactly what was going on.

"I just… we have a tee time of 8:30… tomorrow," Wilson says, still looking around.

"Good." He takes a sip of water.

"Are you going to be here or should I pick you up somewhere else?"

House and Stacy look at each other for a moment before he turns back to his friend. "I'm not moving. Stacy had a break-in. She needs a place to stay for a little while."

Wilson winces and moves into the sunlit living room. House is sure that he's taking in the fact that there are more than just clothes and toiletries here. There are blankets, a new chair, and books laying about on the wooden floor. There are too many things here to be just a place to stay. House knows Wilson and he knows what'll try to say. But House also knows that Wilson has no ground on which to stand. He's on his second marriage and it already sucks.

"Uh huh," Wilson responds. "I can see that." He turns and comes back to the kitchen.

"You think we're rushing," Stacy says. It's House's turn to wince now and he stands, moving into the more comfortable chairs in the living room with his glass of water. He flips on the television and begins sifting through Saturday afternoon television.

"No." Wilson crosses his arms and one lifts to rub the back of his neck as he glances at House when he moves past. "I just… I didn't know that you were that serious… together… I mean… It just… " He stumbles for a moment and then sighs. "You've been dating a week."

"It's temporary, Wilson," House yells back to the kitchen.

There's an awkward pause during which Stacy gives Wilson a confirmation nod. Wilson sighs, puts his hands on the back of the chair that House has vacated. "So, I guess it would be rude of me if I didn't ask if you needed help."

House smiles from the living room and swallows another cooling mouthful of water. That box isn't making it back down the stairs on its own.


	3. Chapter 3

**thanks for reviews... part 3... **

* * *

He pushes through the metal bar on the door, heading towards the wooden stairway of the hospital's north wing. He takes two at a time, long legs bouncing, heart rate increasing in each step, anger dissipating. When he reaches the first landing, he hears her coming through the doors below him and turns, head cocked. He sighs deeply and continues even more quickly to the second landing. He's got three more floors to go before he reaches the safety of his office. Hopefully, he can find some reason there to delay the conversation. This is something he doesn't have any desire to talk about. It doesn't matter that she's the closest confidant he's ever had.

"Greg, would you _please_ stop?"

He finds it strange that he obeys. He never obeyed his mother -not unless his dad was around and then, only until he was old enough to run.

Stacy is breathing hard by the time she reaches him. He's standing on the step above her, but slouching against the railing, his head turned towards his feet. Finally, she catches her breath and begins speaking.

"So what's the big deal about this? Other than you're a snooping jerk…"

"I'm not really into birthday surprises…"

"I just thought it would be a nice."

"It's nice to go to dinner, play some golf, have wild sex. You could've invited Glenda from the ER."

His eyes are a little wide and sarcastic now. In the year that she's known him, she's figured out that deflection is his version of reluctance. This is something he doesn't want to explain.

"We can do those things on your actual birthday. Except for Glenda- I checked, but she's busy." The sarcasm draws the hint of a smirk on his lips, but it soon returns to stoic silence, so she continues. "This weekend, I thought it might be nice if your parents came down and we had dinner." House is still looking at his feet. "I've only talked to them on the phone and you obviously haven't seen them since we've been together."

His mouth twists and he looks up at her, anger bursting into his eyes as his brows fold together. "There's a _reason_ for that."

"I got them a hotel room. They won't even be staying with us."

"Well, thank god for that. Can we get them dinner reservations too?"

Stacy leans into him and he recoils, avoiding her questioning glance. Stacy has found that very few things really get to Greg House when it comes to his personal life. He often jokes that with the exception of her, he has no personal life, and therefore no one can gossip or offend him. She's witnessed phone conversations with his mom. She's spoken to his father once when Greg wasn't around to answer the phone. James Wilson is his best friend and everyone else they associate with are her friends. She's invited all of these people to dinner on Saturday night. Not one of them seems to be a reason for Greg's reluctance.

"Why don't you want to see them?"

"I _want_ to see them. Just... not on Saturday."

She knows it's a lie, so she leans further into him, pushing his back into the railing even more. The door suddenly opens above them and two nurses begin down the stairs, catching glances at House and Stacy as she pulls off of him and stands with her arms crossed. She waits until the nurses have exited the stairwell to continue.

"You haven't seen them in a year. They're nice people."

"You don't know that."

"Your mother sent us tickets to the Flyers game and cookies when it was my birthday."

"My mom's great."

"She is."

He pauses and pinches the space at the top of his nose. "Can we not do this now?"

"Greg…" There is a warning tone in her voice.

"Seriously. I've got patients."

"Who can wait. I checked."

"That's illegal."

"Never stopped you. So why don't you want to see your dad?"

His chin lifts to the ceiling and he sighs.

"We don't really… get along."

There is something in his demeanor that tells her that this is something more in depth than Greg's rumpled shirts and his dad's Marine Corps morality. She is suddenly thinking of his propensity to diagnose half the kids in the clinic with abusive parents. She's heard of no less than five cases that ended up being dragged into court. She pushes the thought to the side and probes further. Her eyes squint and she puts her hands on his chest. "Since when?"

"Since I was four and he dumped me into an ice bath for pissing the bed."

Stacy looks up at him in surprise, but with none of the pity that he expects. "Are you serious?"

"No, I'm making it up." He rubs his face again then speaks. "It was the 60's." He shrugs and purses his lips.

"Doesn't make it right."

"Whatever. Can you call it off now?"

She grabs at his lapels, stopping him from moving up the stairs again. "Greg, they're already on their way."

"Tell them I have the flu. I'm puking all over the place."

"It's one night, Greg. One dinner."

"Right."

He turns again, moving up the stairs unhindered. As Stacy watches him, his gait is carrying an extra twenty pounds of emotional baggage.

She feels a little guilty when she calls Blythe House later that night letting her know what time to meet them at McKinley's.


	4. Chapter 4

Lead Me Upstairs (4/?)

* * *

There are slow and heavy steps coming up the stairway a few minutes before seven. The evening, steel gray and damp, has opened up to a steady misting an hour prior. She's been in the kitchen since she got home, pulling together a casserole and cutting vegetables for a salad. The table's been set for the two of them, and she slides over in her socks and puts the two beers next to their frosted glasses. It's quick and casual for a Wednesday night.

The door swings open and he steps into the kitchen with a splat. The bottoms of his slacks are soaked through and his coat is dripping. He makes to wipe his feet on the doormat, but it's not helping much and he's making puddles wherever he walks.

"God, honey, you're soaked…" she murmurs, moving towards him. She glances out the window and sees that the mist has turned to a downpour. She helps him shrug out of his coat and reminds herself to throw it in the dryer later. He still hasn't said anything, but he moves towards the back of the apartment, heading for the bathroom.

She continues throwing the salad together and pulls the casserole out of the oven while she listens to him in the back. There's the sound of wet jeans hitting the floor, of running water, a toilet flushing. When he comes back to the kitchen, his hair is still plastered to his head, but his clothes are dry and he's no longer dripping. He settles heavily into his chair and takes a swig of the beer from the bottle.

"How was your day?" she asks tentatively.

"Long," he mutters. His voice, she notes, is scratchy, congested. He went in before she was up this morning and she knew he'd been running crazy all day. She'd passed him once in the hallway, but hadn't been able to speak to him. Now he's late coming home and looks exhausted.

She says nothing more until she's finished preparing and sits down herself.

"How's the patient?" There's only one that she could be talking about. The rest are doing well.

"Dead."

"What? When?"

"About five."

"What happened?"

He shrugs. "Family won't allow an autopsy."

"You okay?"

He looks up at her and digs into the casserole, scooping it onto his plate in one angry slopping motion.

"Okay," she repeats. "Dumb question."

He shakes his head. "No, I just…" His head shakes again before silence claims the room. "So how was your day?" A change of subject is better. But it doesn't alleviate the weight in the room.

"Good. Normal."

They finish dinner in silence and she wonders if he'll want to talk about it later. She can never tell what he will or won't talk about. It comes out in spurts- these little bits of his life that she's sure no one else knows about. The one thing that she is sure of is that if she pushes it, he'll just be angry about it and it'll upset him more than if he remains quiet and lets it go away on its own.

After dinner, she lets him wrap himself around her on the couch while they passively watch television. She asks him, after the third time he sneezes on her, if he's sick and if she should go get some Thera-Flu before they go to bed. But he just holds her tighter and pulls the blanket around them.

It's after midnight when she wakes and hears him wheezing behind her on the couch. The television is still on- Letterman is spouting off about Clinton. . She sits up, the blanket falling to the floor. The wood floor hurts her knees, but she leans down anyway, running a hand across his forehead. She flinches when the heat comes into contact with the skin of her palm and winces as a particularly bright scene from the television shows her just how flushed he is. He mumbles something and she puts a hand on his clammy forearm.

"Honey…"

"Hmm?" His eyes stay closed.

"You're sick."

"I'm fine."

"You're burning up. I'm going to the drugstore."

"Tomorrow." He pulls on her shoulder, but she resists and stands.

"Now."

"Don't go." He's already missing her warmth next to him and he wants her back on the couch so he can finish his sleep. So she throws a blanket over top of him and kisses his forehead, making a promise:

"I'll be back."

She stands, finds her jacket, purse, and shoes in the dark, and drives the five minutes to Walgreen's. The fluorescent lights in the store make her eyes hurt as she makes her way down the aisle containing the cold medicines. The store is nearly empty, but there is already someone looking at the row where she wants to be and she stands to the side and waits until he is done. After a few moments, he begins to move on, but when she looks up, she realizes that she knows him.

"James?"

He looks up from the box he carries in his hand. "Stacy, oh- hi."

"What are you doing here?"

He pauses, shakes the box in front of him. "Ah… it's Bonnie. She's.. got something. You?"

"Greg."

He nods, understanding. "Yeah, wasn't looking so hot today. I thought it was…" He fades off, looking down again. It was something he didn't mean to mention. Stacy is still looking at him, knowing what he's hiding.

"The patient?"

He grimaces, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "He doesn't take these things lightly."

"I know…"

"No, you don't," he says firmly. Now he's looking directly at her. "You can't possibly know how serious he takes these things."

She's confused for a moment and bites her lip. "Tell me."

He sighs, looks at her and around the empty store. Elevator music, empty and drab accompanies the sound of the sliding door as yet another late night customer walks in. "Have time for a coffee?"

An hour later, she trudges up the staircase to the apartment, clothes damp from the misty night. She's satisfied with what James has told her. So he sulks. So he carries around regrets and failures for years. She knows this already. However, she didn't know that one big failure resulted in him digging up the past whenever a similar case came around. "Ghosts," Wilson called them. House couldn't let them go. It was probably the reason he got sick tonight. It was the part of the reason he'd been fired from three hospitals.

The apartment is still dark. He is still sleeping fitfully on the couch. She boils some water, takes it off before the whistle starts, and pours it over the Thera-Flu. Cup in hand, she leans over him, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

"Honey… "

He stirs, brings a hand to his forehead.

"Hmph…" he sighs.

"Honey, you need to drink this."

He rolls to his back, but his eyes remain closed. "Hmm.. Think I'm sick."

Stacy grins at his late realization. "I know you're sick. Drink this."

He opens his eyes, and his hands reach towards the cup. He sips it, wincing at the heat as she watches. She takes it when he's done, putting a hand to his head again.

"We should go to bed."

He nods, but it takes a moment to get him to his feet. They stumble together to the bedroom, strip down to nothing, and climb under the sheets. She rolls to him, pressing against his back and her fingers caress his chest. In the morning, they both call in sick.


	5. Chapter 5

Lead Me Upstairs (5/?)

Thanks for the reviews...

* * *

There are feet running up and down the stairs all night long. Bare feet, boot-clad feet, sandaled feet, children, adults, dogs. Their room, unfortunately, is right next to the stairway and there is no elevator. It's a main thoroughfare that has been quiet in the past few nights. Perhaps it's the weekenders, House thinks, the all-night partiers out for a romp on the town and running up and down random staircases in similarly random hotels. 

He spends much of the night staring at the ceiling, imagining what kind of hell travel will be tomorrow. They'll board a five hour train to Bangalore in the morning. He'll be exhausted, Stacy will be irritable, and the car will be noisy and overcrowded. From there, a flight up to Dehli, where they'll find another pension and get a night's rest before he works for another two weeks and she sifts through markets and squares and finds the best curry. At the end of it, they'll have two weeks of vacation before returning to the States. Working with the local doctors and hospitals is a challenge and it's never boring. He has to work to understand the patients and he's even managed to pick up some of the language from the doctors who speak English. It's nothing like Princeton, with it's high-priced college kids and whiny suburban dads with back strain. The people he's working with here are primarily poverty-stricken and _Harijan _with no way out of their untouchable status. Their complaints and their conditions are more tangible and serious than almost everything in New Jersey.

Stacy shifts next to him, throwing an arm over his torso. He sighs, thanks their sponsors for throwing down extra money for air conditioning. But it's still warm in the room and he's bare-chested with the sheets at their feet. House touches Stacy's arm, running up and down. Her skin is warm, smooth.

He's thankful she took the time off to come with him. It isn't often that he gets to do this work. The conditions can be shoddy and his ass occasionally turns into a faucet, but he gets to travel, to learn something he didn't otherwise know, and to be incredibly _not_ bored. He wasn't sure, at first, whether or not Stacy would fit into this trip. They'd never traveled together before and conditions, at times, weren't ideal. However, she'd adapted well and the only major fight they'd had the whole month was over whether to spend an extra week in India or fly to Thailand and lie on the beach for a week. They'd ended up flipping a coin over the issue and neither could complain when Thailand won the toss. The one thing he couldn't take his mind off, however, was how much he actually liked her being there. He couldn't think of any other person he'd rather be with. And for once in his life, he didn't want to be alone.

"Greg," she mutters, absently touching his navel. "You're still awake?"

"You aren't?" He reaches over her to tap the light on the travel alarm: 2:04.

"Have you slept at all? We still have some Valium…"

"Save it for tomorrow."

There is silence punctuated by the sound of running water in an adjacent room and more footsteps on the stairs.

"I like being here."

He rolls over, looking at her as she stares upwards at the ceiling. Her eyes shift to him for a moment and he can see her smile in the dim light. "You like peeing in squat toilets and smelling the bouquet of river sewage in what they call drinking water?"

She laughs a bit and smiles. "I've never traveled like this before."

"You've never been outside of the U.S. before."

"True. Have you?"

They've never talked about it. The subject never came up before three months ago when he suddenly revealed that he'd been invited to participate in an exchange program in India. And then their conversations were about vaccinations, visas, plane tickets, hotels, and packing lists.

"Yeah. Long time ago."

"Where?"

"My dad was Marine, so…"

"Doesn't count."

"What do you mean it doesn't count? We lived in Europe, Japan, Egypt…"

"On American bases."

"He worked at the embassy in Egypt. We lived in Cairo." He's being smart now.

"Yeah, but have you _traveled_?"

He sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, lifting himself onto his elbows. "I was 20. Dropped out of school for a year."

"Where did you go?"

"South America."

"How was it?"

"During or after?"

She frowns. "During. Traveling.."

"_That_ was good. Very good. Hot Brazilian babes everywhere, monkeys, jungles, guerrillas, amazing parasites…" Ha.

She slaps his shoulder playfully and rolls onto her side to face him.

"What about afterwards?"

"My dad cut off my college money and didn't talk to me for two years. Said I was turning into a commie."

"What did you do?"

"Got a scholarship and a job."

"Did you travel again?"

He sighs and drops down to the lumpy pillow and his voice becomes muffled. He doesn't want to talk about travel now. Not while he's actually traveling and not while he's lying here with their skins touching. "Not for a while. Europe was nice last time I got fired. Maybe I'll get fired again…"

"Not if you do your job."

"But Europe is so nice in the summer…"

The little hairs on his neck stand up when she begins tracing light figure eights on his back.

"Next time, I want to go to Paris."

She moves closer to him, throws a leg over his and continues her ministrations on his back.

"Okay." His voice is tired, mumbling still into the pillow. But then he turns his head, facing her and kisses her full on the lips. "I love you."

As Stacy drifts off to sleep again, she realizes that it was the first time in three years those words had been said to her unprompted.


	6. Chapter 6

Gracias for the reviews. This is the last update until I get back (June).

* * *

For the first time in a week, the stairway to the apartment is quiet by 7PM. The new downstairs neighbors have had an endless stream of visitors and housewarmings, all of them boisterous and openly expressing their love of the area and the rustic building. Stacy has begun to curse the design that makes noise in the stairway sound like it's happening in the same room.

Watching the news after work, a few sleepless nights catch up with her. Stacy has fallen asleep on the couch, her feet propped up on the end and her head in Greg's lap. She can't remember when he moved, but he did- and now he's at the computer and her head is resting on one of the pillows she bought for his couch.

It's his tapping at the keyboard that has woken her. The television is still on and the latest television detectives bully a rapist into a confession. Greg has a lamp on at the desk, but otherwise the room is dark. Stacy sits up, yawning, and pushes the blanket down to her waist. Her limbs are heavy with sleep and rests against the back of the couch, head tilted towards the ceiling.

She sighs loud enough for him to hear, but he doesn't turn. He's engrossed in whatever he's doing. From the couch, she can see that he's scanning a list of names on a website. There is an emblem of some sort in the top right corner of the page- a university or a hospital. The tapping is him scrolling down.

"Honey?"

The taps pause and he takes the pen out of his mouth. "Uh huh?" He doesn't look at her.

"Let's go to bed."

"Busy."

She pushes back against the couch, relaxing again. "You must be tired… you were up early today."

"Uh huh."

"The neighbors are finally quiet. Be good to get some rest."

"Uh huh."

"We've got to go up to my mother's tomorrow, so we need to leave at about six, okay?"

"Hmm."

"I'm pregnant with Wilson's lovechild."

"Uh huh." His head lifts for a moment and he turns. "Wait, what was that last one?"

By the time he's turned, however, she's at his side, scanning the screen in which he's absorbed.

"You aren't listening to anything I'm saying. What are you looking at?"

"I think you just said you were pregnant…"

"Yep." She continues looking at the website. It's a list of people by the name of Kincade on a personal search engine. "But it's Wilson's," she concludes.

"Thank god. I don't have to pay child support then. He can't live here though- Wilson's got bad bathroom habits, if you know what I _mean_..."

"Are you combing for contacts here or what?" She looks over the list under the light and quickly makes the connection between what's on the screen and what's on the paper. He's written down two Virginia addresses and circled one. On the task bar, she can see another browser opened to a page entitled John Kincade, J.D.…"

"Who is this guy?"

He shrugs, moves his hand to the side and makes to close the window. "No one."

"He's someone."

The window shuts and her eyes move back to the piece of paper. Then House flips the switch on the light and the room is dark except for the television. He grabs at her waist and brings her down to him. "You know, if you have a legal issue in Virginia, I know some people. "

"Don't have a legal issue."

At times like this, he's noncommittal in his conversation. She can tell he doesn't want her to know, but he'll answer truthfully if she asks the right questions. Otherwise, he'll deflect and downplay. So she begins the routine that's become so familiar over the past few years.

"Is he coming to work here?"

"Nope." His fingers play with the edge of her shirt and creep underneath. She swats them away.

"Do you know him?"

"Kinda" He lowers his head and tries to kiss her. She puts two hands on his face and squeezes his cheeks.

"Work with him?"

"Not so much." He grabs her hands and holds them down, smothering her in a kiss. She's incapable of resisting until his grip loosens. "Let's go to bed."

Now she has an 'in.' "Tell me who he is."

He sighs and lets his grip go completely and rubs his left arm. She stands and he follows, moving towards the bathroom. "He's no one."

"Then why were you looking him up?"

"He's one of the top criminal solicitors in Virginia. Why wouldn't I want to know him?" He shuts the door to the bathroom. When they go to bed that night, he's facing away from her. She thinks that maybe he's just tired. Maybe he just wants to sleep.

But in the early morning, she sees him at the desk again, coffee in hand, combing through websites and news articles. She can't help that she's curious by nature. If can't answer her questions, then she'll figure it out for herself. When he gets into the shower, she backtracks through his internet history and finds a webpage with graduates of the same high school. Greg House is not among those listed, but it's a Virginia high school and the graduation class fits. John Kincade and Greg House would have been in the same graduating class. She isn't sure exactly where Greg went to high school, but she knows that for at least part of the time, he was in Virginia. She has an inkling that it must be the connection. Just behind that webpage is another: City of Hampton assessments and collections. When he comes from the shower, she shuts down the computer and moves away. By now, Stacy has learned when not to push, so she saves her questions for the right moment.

A few weeks later, she's having dinner in Virginia with Greg and his parents. It's his mother's birthday. They're talking about politics and Greg's dad, previously quiet, pipes into the conversation. "I heard John is running for State Attorney General." Stacy looks over the bowl of mashed potatoes and sees Greg forcefully swallow and look down. John House continues. "He's a real fighter."

"Wasn't there something in the paper about him last week? Some kind of underhanded property deal... " Blythe comments, frowning. Greg shifts, uncomfortable.

"Slander." John waves a hand at his wife and continues. "I'd vote for him." He turns to Greg, pointing his fork at him before digging back into his mashed potatoes. "Plus he saved your sorry…"

Greg interrupts. "Kincade's a jerk. Always has been."

"He did you a favor."

"He screwed me over."

Awkward silence reigns as the two men stare at each other across the table. Blythe intercedes before anything else is said. "So how do you like your new position, Stacy? Greg tells me your office is closer…"

Stacy is glad that the conversation about Kincade stopped. But it doesn't stop her curiosity from getting the best of her as she's helping Blythe with the dishes. Greg has gone out, claiming that he needed the air. And John is reading the paper in front of the television downstairs.

She bends over to put a dish in the washer after Blythe has rinsed it. When she stands, she sighs and asks: "What did that guy do to Greg?"

It almost seems like Blythe House has expected the question and she gives Stacy a little smile and reaches for the next dirty dish. "Well," she starts. "Greg was seventeen…" The way she tells the story is like a fable- a story of boys and troubles and the lessons learned. It's not the story that Stacy expects to hear after she saw Greg's reaction, his obsession. Even though the offense was minor (Kincade narced on an unsuspecting and experimenting Greg House, who thought that THC might enhance his perception of sound), the longstanding grudge was apparent. House never got past the fact that someone else had decided what was right for him. House also never got the chance to exact his revenge on Kincade and it had been a sore spot ever since.

Later that night as Stacy is mulling it over in the unfamiliar dark, Greg is asleep next to her. She'd asked about Kincade this time, in the hopes that he'd explain. But in the end, he turns a shoulder and drops off to sleep, claiming he's too tired to think about it. She thinks of Greg's internet searches, of his preoccupation, of the newspaper article that Blythe mentioned; she hopes that he never needs to exact revenge against her.


	7. Chapter 7

A new section... more in the works. Please R&R. Thanks :)

* * *

She's placed herself under his right shoulder, but it feels like he's not even trying to get up the stairs to the apartment. She's got one hand braced on the wall and the other wrapped around his waist, balancing them both. Her hair keeps swinging into her face and catches in her mouth. By the fifth stair (halfway) sweat is trickling down her face and she has to stop to catch her breath. 

"Honey, I gotta rest for a sec."

This is a stupid idea- coming back to the apartment when Greg is in this shape. She should have never let him talk her into it. But he had been adamant. He wanted _his_ bed, _his_ bathroom. On any other day, she'd throw it back in his face. Today, the hurt and the pain dictate her silence.

"Okay." He sounds out of breath too, and she lowers him to sit on the stair. He's practically panting, red-faced, and he clutches at his leg. She knows it's killing him, and shakes her head, wincing. She recalls a thousand times that Greg has run up these stairs, sweating and panting, after having already run ten miles on a Sunday morning. He'd done a marathon once- just to say that he'd done it. Stacy remembers how much he whined afterwards- about his legs, his back, the places where his clothing had rubbed his skin raw for 26 miles. Now, it feels strange that his agony is blatant, yet his mouth is pinched in a tight line. She has never seen him this weakened and she can't stop the rising worry in her gut.

He was supposed to be at home resting, but when she called, he didn't answer. Then Meg from the clinic had called her and told her that Greg was there pissing blood into a catheter and consenting to whatever Dr. Lorian suggested. In the end, the doctor suggested that Greg's leg was a soft tissue injury incurred when he'd plunged a syringe full of Demerol through a layer of denim. The blood is from from a urinary tract infection and the prescriptions are in Stacy's purse. She wants to be mad at him for doing this, for making their lives so complicated for a pulled muscle. But he's practically writhing on the stair and he's still not caught his breath. It seems like too much. They've got five more steps to go.

"You ready?" she says, pulling her hair behind her and into a ponytail.

He nods, still silent.

When she lowers him to the couch in the apartment ten minutes later, she is alarmed to find that his face is tear-stained. She can see the trail of the salt down his cheeks and his eyes are red. She gets him a glass of water and another full of cranberry juice and tells him to drink them both. He pushes the cranberry away, complaining that it tastes like crap and that he'll have to drink his weight in it to make a difference, but he gulps the water.

Stacy stands in front of him, her hands on her hips, watching. His hands are trembling and she's not sure Lorian was right. But she's not a doctor, afterall, and Greg consented, took the advice, and let her drive him home. He's barely said anything to her at all.

To House, the past two days have been one nightmare after the next. The inexplicable pain and a clinic doctor's incompetence had ruined a perfectly good round of golf. He'd been in so much pain that he hadn't even gotten through the admission forms before someone was helping him into an examination room. His name wouldn't even appear on the "watch" list. And the Demerol allowed him to go peacably- laughing even- as he walked out to get a cab home. In the evening, he and Stacy had laughed about it together as he'd allowed the lingering Demerol to mix with a few beers. The pain was completely gone and he felt good, despite Stacy's insistance that maybe he should take it easy for a few days. But this morning, the remains of the Demerol and the beer flowed into the toilet and the pain was back. So much for the power of positive thinking.

He'd struggled out of bed, already feeling weak and tired, and made up his mind to confront the clinic doctor about the incident the day prior. If anything, the kid could use a good talking to. You just didn't hold a syringe of Demerol up to a screaming patient's face and expect the patient to do nothing. But again, he found himself in the waiting room, fingers digging into his thigh, as a nurse guided him back to an examination room. The incompetent new doctor was nowhere in sight, but another, Dr. Lorian, was proving that anesthesia really wasn't necessary during catherization. House couldn't help but believe that the two doctors had talked.

Lorian wasn't one to hide his contempt of House and seemed nonplussed when the bag filled with urine and blood was held up in front of him by his belligerant patient and contemptable co-worker. "Yeah... and I'm a drug seeking addict," House had ranted as Lorian wrote in the chart.

"This is a UTI, House."

"In my leg?"

"You pulled a muscle. And stabbing yourself with a needle yesterday wasn't the best of ideas either. I'm recommending bed rest and I'll prescribe you an antibiotic for the UTI."

House had let his head fall back at Lorian's stubborn rationalizations. "Then test me." Lorian was nodding. "All in the work-up, House. Takes a few days- you know that."

"MRI then. To make sure I didn't do any real damage." The argument seemed borderline- even to him. But his leg actually hurt. It hurt more than any pulled muscle he'd ever had. To his recollection, it hurt even more than a broken leg in junior high. Lorian's response was another sigh and a shake of his head. "If you want a second opinion, then go get one."

By the time Stacy had wondered down to the clinic, he'd given up all hope of convincing Lorian to do anything besides tack on some high dose ibuprofen for the pain. Even Cuddy had stepped in and ordered House to go home. Resigned, tired, and still hurting, he'd let Stacy push him in a wheelchair out to her car. He'd needed help getting in the passenger seat. The stairs had been a third nightmare that he never wanted to relive, though he was glad to be home on the couch.

House has decided that if he'd done some kind of muscular damage to his leg, then it'll eventually heal. He'll ice down for a few days, lay low, take it easy. The UTI _will_ clear up; the leg _will_ heal. If Stacy will stop staring at him, then everything will be just fine.

"Take a picture- probably last longer," he remarks. He half drops the empty glass onto the coffee table.

She sighs and collects the glass, placing it next to the sink for later. When she comes back she resumes her position in front of him. "Are you sure that Lorian…"

"What do you want me to say? I don't have a better answer."

"It's just that…"

"What?" He's angry now and he's got nowhere else to direct it.

"You're in pain." He nods and makes to lift his legs onto the couch, grimacing. She goes to help him, feeling the tightness in his right quad. "This isn't right, Greg…"

"Bed rest and antibiotics. I can't think of a better way to spend my day."

"Maybe we should get that second opinion."

"It'll be fine."

Stacy is unsure, but what can she do? Wilson is across the country. Cuddy has sided up to Lorian. No one is listening and she's terrified that this is something more serious. She's seen Greg with a hay fever, the flu, with pulled muscles. He dramatizes the small stuff and he whines until she babies him. But he's never cried before. And he's not playing this one up- it appears he's actually doing the opposite. She doesn't know what to make of it- but yet she's learned, somehow, to trust his judgment. Just because he's the patient this time shouldn't make it any different. But rationality and trust don't help dissolve the ball of worry in the pit of her stomach.

In the morning, he looks better. He says he's in less pain, so she goes to work and leaves Greg with the remote control in his hand and Judge Judy ranting to a mother about the example she's setting for her kids. Stacy runs into Cuddy at lunch, who inevitably asks her about Greg. She tells her that he's fine, but that it just doesn't seem right to her. She tells Cuddy that Greg isn't overplaying- he's actually in pain. Cuddy tries to reassure her: he's sulking because it was his fault, it's nothing, and it'll pass. Strangely, it does nothing to calm Stacy's nerves.

Three days later, House wakes up having dreamed that he's trying to talk to Stacy, but is so weakened he can't speak. The words are running across his mind, but he can't convince his mouth to move. The dream isn't far off from reality and his arms flop above his head and then curl under the cool pillows as Stacy sits on the bed smelling like shampoo and that lotion that he got her for her birthday. She puts a hand through his hair and he sighs at the feeling, wishing he was in the mood for something else. But he just isn't. He's tired. He needs sleep. He needs to get better.

As of last night, he was still pissing blood, though it was more brown tinged than red and there wasn't much. And his leg pain has diminished, but the heaviness has grown. His foot is all pins and needles. Maybe because he's lying down all the time. Maybe because of the swelling on a pulled muscle. Who knows? Who cares? Every rational bit of medical information he has gathered from his own body tells him that something isn't right. His ongoing symptoms don't match a UTI and soft tissue damage, but he keeps waiting it out because he can't think straight and god, but he really just needs to lay down for a little while and shut his eyes.

He mumbles that he doesn't feel so great and that he's taking another day off work. Stacy asks him, for the third time that morning, if they shouldn't get another opinion because he should've been better by now. But he shakes his head. He's too tired to go anywhere. Why won't she just leave him and let him sleep? "Must be the antibiotic," he mumbles, to get her moving. He wants to tell her more- that antibiotics sometimes leave the body open to other opportunistic infections. Throws off natural chemistry. Can make you tired, make you hurt. Maybe the infection moved to his kidneys. But his pillow is soft, and if he lies just right on it, the light coming from the window isn't too bad. His eyes won't stay open and he doesn't feel like conversation. "I dunno," he continues. "Go to work." She leans down to kiss him on the check and then he's sleeping before the door shuts.

At noon, Stacy drives home from work for lunch to check on Greg like she's done every day this week. She can't help but still worry and especially this morning when he openly admitted that he didn't feel well. He'd been so groggy. When she parks the car outside the apartment, she has an unexplainable sinking feeling in her gut. She practically runs up the stairs, opening the door quietly, trying not to wake him if he's still sleeping (and he's been doing a lot of that lately). "Greg?" she calls, tentative. There is no response. She sees that he hasn't even made it to the couch today and there's nothing but silence from the bedroom. "Greg." More assertive now. She pushes her uneasiness aside and goes to the kitchen to open the fridge, thinking he'll wake up and ask her to make him lunch. But he doesn't.

She's halfway through making two sandwiches, when she finally decides to go into the bedroom. He's picky sometimes and she wants to know if he wants roast beef or turkey.

"Honey, roast beef or turkey?" She pokes her head around the door. He's facing away from her, his back exposed, legs twisted in the sheets. He doesn't respond.

She goes to sit on the bed, putting a hand on his shoulder. His skin is dry and clammy. "Greg…"

He's not stirring. She rolls him to his back and gasps. There is blood running from his nose and smearing onto the white sheets. She taps his cheek and pinches his arm, but there's no response. When she feels the pulse at his neck, it's slow and erratic. "Oh my god…" she whispers. Then she runs to the telephone.

House comes back to consciousness as Stacy's movements cause the mattress to rebound. But when he moves his head to see where she is, the whole world shifts and he's gasping for a breath against the nausea welling up his esophagus. Maybe it wasn't the amoxicillin, because he can't remember getting this sick from them before. Vaguely, he wonders about the time of day, why there seems to be a smear of blood on his pillow, why he's too tired to get the glass of water on the table. "Honey?" It's Stacy. He struggles to open his eyes and sees a blurry outline of her before she descends and blocks his view of her face with her body. He tries to speak to her, ask her why she isn't at work, but it comes out as a "Whaaaydoere?" The bed dips again and the movement sends him into another spinning tilt-a-whirl. This time he can't help but retch. Stomach acid and the little he ate last night (chicken soup) burn his throat and nose. He hears a vague "God," and something about them coming soon. But he can't think of who it might be. No one should be coming- not when he's in this state.

When the retching stops, Stacy pushes him back against the pillows and is wiping his nose and mouth with a cloth. He tries to move his hand up to take the cloth, but his limbs are heavy. When he looks down, they appear swollen. As the cloth comes away from his face a second time, there is red against the white. Blood. For a moment, his mind is activated again. Bloody nose. Lethargy. Decreased urine. Swelling. The pain in his leg. Pain. Wasn't there before. He didn't pull it. Soft tissue damage. Brown urine- not red. Brown.

Stacy is still running the cloth against his forehead and he manages to move his hand up to catch it. "'s no good," he manages. "Need a hospital."

He realizes that she's nodding at him and saying "I know... they're coming." He sighs against the tired and sick consuming his mind and body and tries again.

"Kidneys."

"What is it?"

"'m dying." It's not exactly what he wanted to say, but it gets the point across. If he doesn't get treatment, he _will_ die. And from the way he's feeling, it may be sooner rather than later.

She grabs for his hand then and squeezes so hard that he winces. "You're fine, Greg. You're sick, but we'll get you better."

"'s gotta be..." he pauses, swallows, "in my leg... the muscle."

"Shhh," she murmurs, still holding his hand. "The ambulance is coming. Save your strength."

"Stacy... muscle death," he gasps. "Killing my kidneys."

"Okay," she whispers, running a hand against his cheek.

He lifts his head from the pillow for a moment. "You tell them," he says with a force that neither of them thought he had left. It's desperate, demanding. His head drops back to the pillow and Stacy nods her consent at his instruction. The effort of the thought and talk are too much to continue. He focuses instead on breathing, on not puking, on staying conscious. She wipes his nose again and there is fresh blood on the cloth.

The doorbell rings and she stands, racing down the stairs to open the door for the paramedics. When they get to the bedroom, House is unconscious and unresponsive again and Stacy repeats what she's learned: "Muscle death," she says. "He says his kidneys are shutting down."


	8. Chapter 8

Lead me Upstairs (8/?)

* * *

Somewhere, buried beneath levels of medications and exhaustion and illness, he knows he's dreaming. But it doesn't stop it from hurting because he's climbing, running, sprinting up the massive bleachers of his high school stadium. 

The steps are enormous- two feet in depth each- and his quads (particularly his right) are burning burning burning. But his coach says it's good for him, helps with his speed, and thus his agility. The burning is a good thing. No pain, no gain.

His heart pounds and he can't quite catch his breath. Two more, the coach calls. Again again. Two becomes four becomes six and eight. Two more- but there is only upstairs and he never gets the chance to go back down. Two more.

_Two more_, Stacy says. _We need more_. He looks for her at the top, but the sun is too bright and it blocks his view. He can't see. And after he's looked, his vision darkens in response- overreactive pupils and he is blinded. Two more.

_Come on, Greg. You're wimping out_. He is still running though. How can he be wimping out_? I'm still going coach. I'm still running. I haven't quit._

_You always did take shortcuts. You don't use what you have_, _Greg_. His dad is taunting him and he sees him cross his arms, turns his back. His mom grabs his father's arm and reluctantly turns with him. Doesn't want to cause trouble.

_But I'm still running. I'm not taking a shortcut. I swear it. _This time. Too many times he's cried 'wolf.'

_House, you can't do this_, Wilson says. _You're going to kill someone or you're going to get fired._ Fired? Fired from what? He is running. His coach says it will make him better.

_Feel the burn, Greg. You're getting stronger. You're weak Greg, weak. You're an idiot. Incompetent. Jerk. You almost killed yourself_. Die? Don't want to die. Stacy will be pissed. Can't die. Got patients to deal with. Don't deal with the patients, you'll be fired. Mrs. Harris on the fifth floor with her late stage diabetes and her shrivelled up kidneys. Mr. Valdarama next door with his recurrent kidney stones. Last one blocked him up for days, almost killed him. Failure. Failure. Can't cure them all.

Coldness. Like ice, touching the sides of his ribs, and climbing up into his armpits. He is gripped and it takes away the burn of his quads for a moment. Then they mix, and his skin pricks with icy heat and he's shivering.

He gasps. The endless concrete stairs are replaced by harsh florescence as light filters through the thin slits of his eyes. Something flies in front of his face and then is gone. Back and then gone. There are voices, mingling, indecipherable.

"Greg?"

Stacy grabs his hand, squeezing.

He is so weak that his fingers barely manage to respond to her touch- but they do. It's the first time in two days he's been conscious of anything and the only thing he really thinks of is that his fingers must be sausages. Hard to move them and his skin feels stretched.

It's been two days since Stacy watched Cuddy inject Greg with enough barbiturates to make him unaware of her decision. Then the surgery- three hours of torture as she'd waited outside, drinking coffee after coffee and re-walking the steps of a thousand other patients' loved ones. The carpet is worn and all her clothes smell like antiseptic and gauze bandage out of the wrapper.

And then this- this fever. The nurses have just shoved two more ice packs around him, hoping to cool him off and Stacy can't help but know that Greg is miserable despite all the drugs and the half consciousness.

His lips, cracked and dry, open and then close. She takes the opportunity to rub them with a piece of ice and he seems to calm from her touch. His formerly rigid muscles begin to unclench.

"That's it. Relax. You're going to feel better soon." He grips her hand with a weak squeeze and then he is gone again.

* * *

A comfortable cottony cloud envelopes him when he comes up again. He hears voices, but they don't speak his language and, moreover, they just don't matter because he feels so good, so _so_ comfortable and lethargic. There is no up and no down- only comfort and the mysterious and unfamiliar feeling of being without pain. Briefly, he wonders why that is such a strange thing, but then he begins to think about more pressing issues- like the feeling that his shoulders and his neck don't quick align right and his arms are free-floating in a vacuum. It feels funny and his mouth, although he doesn't know it, turns up at the end in a half smile.

The voices come a little nearer to him now, getting a little louder. They're stretched and faint, but he thinks he hears his name: "Dr. House?" Doctor schmocter. Doctor schmuck. "… Hear me?" He hears, but the part of his brain that translates the sound waves to the language comprehension center is instead focused on the sound of waves breaking on a shore somewhere in his temporal lobe. The beach sand is pristine and limestone cliffs jut out into the water. The water is orange, a reflection of the sun setting over the horizon. He floats down because he is flying and picks up a conch shell, notes it's pallid interior lip and the wavy sharp spines on the exterior. The conch slips, cuts his finger. Heaviness replaces the feeling of floating. He flails and falls into the sand.

"Dr. House…."

The conch is on the ground and blood mars the white sand surrounding it. His eyes are on level with the sea and it seems to be moving closer, getting louder. Despite the lethargy in his body, he wills himself to move, to get out of the way less the tide consume and drown him. But as soon as he gets to his knees, he realizes something is not quite right. He can't bring his right leg up to get to the foot. And his levitating ability seems to have been compromised. When he looks down, he sees that his leg ends in a bloody stump. He gasps, speechless and confused. As he opens his mouth and breathes, he smells a durian nearby- a fruit so pungent that it's been banned from several Southeast Asian markets despite the locals' love of it. Someone has cut one open on the beach.

The sea is getting closer and it laps at first his left leg and then the stump of his right. The salt water combines with the blood and it begins to sting. From the depths of his mind, he recalls that salt water is good for wounds- helps infections. So despite the pain, he leans back to allow his legs to stretch out in front of him, allowing the water to cascade over the wound. Blue and red. He tries to lift it away from the sand. He grits his teeth, swallows, lies back because he doesn't know how much he can take of this. The conch shell, shifted by the waves, thunks down on his chest repetitively.

"Greg!" He is aware of a presence. A woman is standing up the shore, her arms crossed, calling him. He and Stacy are on their non-honeymoon. He remembers now. Vacation. Scuba diving. Relaxing on a beach. He doesn't like beaches in particular. But she does. And this one's away from everything and cheap as hell. Then what happened to his leg? He can't recall, but it is still bleeding into the ocean. Scuba diving. Sharks? Sharks and barracudas. They said they were harmless. Blacktips. But Stacy is just standing there, arms crossed, as if she is angry about something. It isn't his fault, is it? He should've taken her to Paris.

"Wake up."

The words are clear, concise, and so near to him that he flinches. What do they mean? He is awake. "Wake… Up."

Wake up. Wake up. But he is comfortable. Not quite. His leg stings. Beginning to ache now. Bone deep and solid again. Wake up. Is there a promise of something better? Stacy is crossing her arms. There is someone behind her, another dark-haired woman. She, too, has her arms crossed. But around her neck hangs a stethoscope and she holds something else in her right hand.

Instead of getting dimmer as the sun goes down, the light suddenly increases ten fold and he is blinded. He blinks furiously, tries to put a hand up to shield his eyes. It is no use. The light comes through and then there is no beach. There is white. White ceiling, white walls, white coats, dark shadows.

He tries to open his mouth to say something- how he rather liked where he had been, if he can't go back now. Why take him away from there? But it sounds, even to him, more like "mmph," because his lips are cracked and a little stuck together. His throat is raw and the taste inside his mouth resembles the smell of a trashcan with days old rotting vegetables.

"You with us?" The dark haired woman with the penlight asks. Cuddy. That's her name. Cuddy. Endocrinologist by trade, Vice Dean by ambition. The boss's boss. He nods his answer. Stacy puts a few ice chips to his lips and he sucks them, cooling the burn in his throat. "You know where you are?"

He swallows then nods again. It's not hard to figure out. As he's still taking in his consciousness, he begins to recall why he's there. Why it feels like he's been asleep for days and why his throat burns like something was recently shoved down it. Right. Infarction. Leg. It's still burning like it was in his dream and he winces and tries to shift. Burning isn't among the list of sensations he should feel.

Stacy is looking to Cuddy with worried glances and despite his remaining lethargy, it doesn't get pass House's perception.

"Are you in any pain?" Cuddy asks him.

"My leg hurts," he whispers, as if it were unexplainable.

"How bad is it?"

"Feels funny."

He shifts his head around to watch where Cuddy is looking. There are a multitude of bags hanging from the stand but the one that she's examining looks suspiciously like Morphine. He'd had Fentanyl before, when his kidneys couldn't handle the morphine. He shifts, growing uneasier by the moment. How long has it been?

He asks.

Cuddy and Stacy glance at each other, obviously uncomfortable. But the door opening distracts House for a moment. Wilson walks in, two coffee cups in his hand. Wilson was away. Wilson was gone for two weeks. Wilson gives a weak smile when he sees House awake, says something like "Of course you wake up when I'm not here…"

There are too many people now. Too many faces and too many questions springing up in House's mind. Too much input into a lethargic, drugged mind. He wishes that Stacy would stand closer. She hasn't touched him except to put the ice chips on his lips. She isn't holding his hand. She isn't saying anything at all.

"Something's wrong," he says.

Cuddy's brow furrows and she looks up at the monitors to House's right. He is sure she sees nothing. He's stable.

"What is it?" she asks. Wilson hands Stacy a coffee and sips from his own cup. There is something there in the way Wilson is looking at her. Something unspoken.

"In some pain?" Wilson asks, looking back at House.

"He's on 4 milligrams per hour. I don't want to push it any further than that right now. We still need to watch…"

"My kidneys survived," House says, suddenly. Then: "Heart's okay?"

Cuddy nods. "Yeah. You'll be fine." But there's something she's not saying.

"Then… what's wrong?"

Cuddy and Wilson both realize that House's insinuation that something is wrong means that something is wrong with them. They are unintentionally reacting to their interior knowledge of the situation. They know they've crippled him. They don't want to upset him. He's fragile now. Sick. Hurt. Vulnerable.

House is looking at each of their faces, but Stacy is looking at something interesting in the far corner of the room and she's having trouble swallowing. She won't meet his eyes. He squints, rolls his eyes back to the monitors. "Everything's fine. You're giving me morphine. I'm not on Heparin, which means the aneurysm and the clot are resolved. I'm not on dialysis, which means my kidneys have recovered. So either it's been a while or…" His voice is cracking up again.

"You… shouldn't talk. The OR was a little careless… with the trach," Wilson stammers.

"What OR?" Anger is beginning to boil in the pit of his stomach.

Stacy turns and walks towards the door, her coffee standing on the table beside the bed, forgotten.

"Oh, God… what did you do?"


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (9/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis who does a steller job of knocking me down and building me back up. :)

* * *

There are only two steps leading through the garage and into Wilson's home. Wilson is standing behind House, who is gripping the armrests of the wheelchair. Wilson pulls him, one step at a time, into the house as Stacy watches. She can tell that each step is jarring because he's biting his lip and his knuckles are white. House refuses to meet her concerned glance. He's been doing that for days- ever since the physiotherapist told him how long his rehab would last, what it might or might not accomplish.

It's been close to two weeks since House had the surgery that Stacy authorized. Today, he finally got Cuddy to agree to let him go home- or least escape from the hospital. Stacy brought him his clothes, but James was the one that pushed him to the car. House's apartment with its narrow staircase is physically off-limits to him now. Since the surgery, he's hardly been mobile and his leg is too weakened to be effective on crutches. That left the wheelchair as the only option. It hadn't taken long for James to volunteer his guest bedroom. Bonnie won't be happy with it, but they'll make do. Stacy can stay too, if she wants. What she doesn't tell James is that she wonders if House wants her to stay at all. After the first year they were together, there was hardly any question. And now this has driven a silent wedge into the relationship.

Stacy chews her lip and fidgets with the duffel in her hand as she comes through the door after the wheelchair.

She follows Wilson to the guest room down the hallway, past the kitchen where Bonnie is cooking a stew. Garlic, beef, pepper, the warm smells of home in the fall. A pumpkin candle somewhere. Stacy smiles weakly at Bonnie and moves on, silent. Wilson has pushed House into the guest bedroom and he's moving a chair so that it won't be in the way. The guest room is sparse and small- the chair, a small dresser, a bookshelf in addition to the bed. A small window faces the house next door and there's no way that sunlight will ever get into the room. The room itself is a pale spring green and smells like green apples. It's too cheery for the mood of the situation. _He may never walk again_.

"Where do you want this?" Stacy asks House about the duffel.

House is facing the window in the wheelchair. Wilson stands to the side, waiting to be told what to do. It's his home, but it's not his place.

"Where do you _think_?"

Stacy sighs and puts the duffel on the bed. She unzips it, begins unloading clothes and toiletries.

Wilson postures nervously by the door. "House- you need anything?" House answers him with a glare and rolls the chair, with difficulty, further towards the window. The floor is carpeted and he has to push a little harder than he did on the hospital linoleum. This isn't like the wheelchair races down the pediatrics ward. Wilson nods and turns to leave. "Just… yell… or something. I'll be in the kitchen."

Stacy pauses for a moment and stares at Greg's profile. He's lost weight- noticeably. His face is even more angular, his shoulders bony. It's been hard for him to get around, so he's quit shaving for days at a time and thick stubble coats his face. She can just make out the yellowing bruises from the I.V.'s on top of his hand and at the collar of his shirt. He sighs and turns his head towards her, but still says nothing.

"Greg…" she starts. She isn't sure what she's going to say. But he cuts her off anyway.

He shakes his head. "You should go home. Someone should make use of the apartment."

She has her answer and she nods, consenting. "I wanted to stay with you, but I know…" She knows that a careless movement in the night will shoot bolts of agony down his leg. One less person in the bed makes that half as likely.

"You don't." He stops and sighs again. She never has, really. Never understood him. Never liked it when he worked late. Never appreciated him for what he was. He knows it's a ruse- all the bad magnified under the light of what she's done most recently. He's taking it out on her. So he stops it. He manages to turn the chair towards her after he's taken the anger out of his face. "Wilson's couch is lumpy. You need your beauty sleep."

Stacy begins folding the clothes and moving them to the dresser. She wants to yell, confront him, tell him that there was no other option, that he'll get over this and they'll be okay. But she bundles up the toiletries and takes them to the bathroom down the hall instead. When she returns, House has made his way out of the door and is slowly rolling down the hallway towards the living room. She resists the urge to help him and instead turns off at the kitchen where Wilson and his wife are speaking in hushed tones. They look up at her when she enters, immediately quiet.

"You staying?" Wilson asks, arms crossed and leaning against the counter.

"No," she responds. "He needs to rest and I need to clean the apartment up anyway."

"You should stay for dinner at least," Bonnie says.

Stacy shakes her head. "I should get back."

The three of them stand in silent stillness, the only movement is the steam rising over the stove as the stew boils. The sound of the television in the next room overrides them suddenly and Stacy is thrown back into action, getting ready to leave again. She goes into the living room and finds House, still in the chair, flipping through random channels before finally settling on an episode of Cops: Las Vegas. She puts a hand on his shoulder and is not surprised when he flinches away from it.

"See anyone you know?" she asks, trying to throw in a little of the something they've lost.

"Not yet. Give it five minutes; I'm sure she'll be on this one."

She smiles and leans down to give him a peck on the cheek. He reaches a hand up to her face, bringing her further down to him and kissing her on the lips. Maybe this can work, she thinks. Maybe he can get over this. Wilson keeps telling her: give it time. But then House pulls away and his eyes go back to the television. She says "See you tomorrow." He doesn't look back at her when he mutters a simple and distracted: "Bye."


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (9/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis who does a steller job of knocking me down and building me back up. :)

* * *

House stands, leaning against the wall in the foyer of his old apartment, looking up the steep and narrow stairway. A burly bald man with arms the size of cantaloupes backs down the stairs with yet another box, another relic of his old life. It seems like years ago that he was running up the stairs every night, having domesticated dinner, falling asleep wrapped around Stacy. Three months, for all he recalls, has been an entire lifetime.

The two movers are breathing hard as they work to get down the stairway. House hopes that it's Stacy's precious breakable _things_ in the box. They've bumped into the wall with it twice. He imagines that they'll drop it on the third stair and there will be a crash, curses, and apologies. But It doesn't happen, and he leans further into the wall as they pass, taking the box to the waiting truck.

Annoyed, he moves outside into the crisp fall air. It's the first hint of what he believes will be a long and cold winter. The smell of rotting leaves saturates his sense of smell and he holds himself up on one leg and one crutch while he wipes his nose. Hay fever will start soon. It should be a different experience this year. The Oxycontin he's been taking for his leg will get rid of the headache. On the other hand, having a body-wracking sneeze attack sounds like torture redefined.

He lowers himself to sit on the front stoop, and lays the crutches down. next to him. As he's slowly straightening his right leg out, he sees Wilson's Volvo pull up to park in front of the truck. Wilson gets out of the car and shoves his hands in his jacket, walking quickly up to the stoop. House eyes him, grimacing because the sun is hitting his eyes just right. Wilson is a black shadow against it.

"Where's Stacy?"

House shrugs and nods back towards the apartment. "I dunno. Up there."

"What's she doing?"

He shrugs again, looks out towards the movers who are coming back to the apartment to get more boxes. Wilson stands aside, watching them pass.

"How should I know?"

Wilson sighs and crosses his arms, looking down at the concrete. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" It wasn't that Wilson doubted House's ability to take care of himself, but he had his doubts that Stacy was going to put up with much more.

They'd always had their spats. Since day one, there have been plenty of ups and downs. Wilson recalls the time three years ago House intentionally missed a flight to Dallas. They'd been sitting in the bar when House's pager rang again and again. When he'd questioned House, he'd said it was nothing. Some nurse had handed out his pager number to every last invalid on the ward with instructions to call often and call loudly. When his own pager had gone off, Wilson stood and made the call and ended up on the receiving end of a near frantic Stacy, who was standing at the airport, just moments from boarding the plane. He hadn't known what to say and at his hesitation, she'd already made a correct assumption. House was ignoring her pages. She went to Dallas alone and brought her elderly parents back with her, letting them take the bed while Stacy and House were relegated to the sofa bed. While Stacy made excuses to her parents, House left the apartment and slept on the couch in the neurology break room for three days. Both were stubborn as hell and each refused to apologize until one day Wilson had caught them sucking face in Stacy's office. Conflict thus resolved. But there was never any doubt that it _would_ resolve. Never any talk of a breakup. And the longest they'd ever been angry was a week.

It's been three months since House's infarction. House won't forgive and takes everything out on her. Stacy acts like there is nothing to forgive, but neither does she stand up for herself against House anymore. Their stubbornness has coalesced into a pool of stagnation.

Stacy had been still living in the apartment, inaccessible to House, so she began taking half-days to make up for the lack of contact between them. She'd head over to Wilson's in the morning, make breakfast, help him with PT, do anything he wanted. From what Wilson could tell (and from what Bonnie had said) it wasn't necessarily a relationship re-building success. More often than not, House had practically chased Stacy out by the time Wilson got home from work. But worse than House's obvious contempt was Stacy's refusal to answer with her own. Without a concrete wall to bounce against, House's sarcasm and anger had free reign. And then House had gotten more mobile last week. He'd graduated to crutches and all hell broke loose in the Wilson household.

House squints up at him, smirking. "Seeing as how you practically kicked me out last week, do I have a choice?"

House standing was much more of a nuisance than House in the chair. He was still disabled, but the crutches gave him more speed on the carpet and the ability to do things he hadn't done in over a month. Fraternity party week, as Bonnie called it, was more than she could take.

Stacy had had a particularly busy case and she was unable to go to the house to keep House company. He'd claimed he was fine now that he was halfway mobile and resisted Wilson's attempts to stay home. Then Bonnie came home one night and there was a lubed condom on the doorknob. When Wilson came home, he'd made a mess of the toilet thanks to the saran wrap with which House had covered it. Then there was House's miraculous Rube-Goldberg at the end of the week, which stretched through the entire lower level of the house. Wilson had no idea how he'd done it in eight hours with a bum leg, other than he'd spent the rest of the week planning it.

The device itself was innocuous: ball bearings, dominoes, resistance bands, and a selection of cookware. However, the apex of the device was both lewd and precarious, involving a very private possession of Bonnie's and a selection of last year's fireworks pointed towards the neighbor's mailbox. House hadn't counted on much of an explosion. In the end, the neighbors thought they heard automatic gunfire and called the police. Officers Bonilla and Carlton found House sitting satisfied on the sofa, admiring the burnt section of ceiling and ruined carpet, beer in hand. All had not gone as planned. When Bonnie arrived shortly afterwards, she waved the police away, claimed that House was her mentally challenged older brother, and that she would soon be placing him in a home. The fallout that evening could have been called another domestic disturbance, but this time, the neighbors were prepared.

Needless to say, Wilson consented to his wife's wishes and told House that he had to go. The only problem was that his old apartment was logistically impossible. House had sat quietly on the couch as Wilson and Stacy shuffled through rental ads and made call after call. Three days later, they came back with five polaroid photos of a place in the south of town that was fully handicapped accessible. House had looked at the first photo and handed them back, nonchalent. His only response was a sigh and a "Looks great." Then he turned back towards the television and swallowed a pill.

Surprisingly, there had been no question or discussion that this was a move Stacy and House were doing together. She'd had her things packed up and moved to the new place as well. But the moving truck and the guys hauling boxes out bring worries to a forefront. House hasn't actually lived with Stacy in three months- not since she denied his dying wish and crippled him. Wilson can only imagine what a bored House could concoct to drive Stacy insane.

Wilson sighs, thinking, and lifts a leg up on the stair, stretching his calf. "You could make it easy and just kick her out now…"

House frowns and chews a nail. He seems to think about it for a moment before he looks down and shakes his head. "Don't want her to go."

"Well your overwhelming gratitude towards her and romantic Romeo gestures certainly show that you want her to stick around."

House's eyes squint, angry at Wilson's insinuation. "Well I'm not exactly in a _position _to show her how much I care."

"If you're not careful, she's going to leave you."

House eyed him, annoyed. "Well if she _wants_ to go, I'm not stopping her." He pauses and taps his fingers on the cement next to the crutches. "Besides, what kind of person would leave a _cripple_?"

"You're an idiot."

Wilson and House watch as movers carry another box down towards the truck. This time, Stacy is following them and she stops next to Wilson. He's feeling awkward and responsible somehow and turns to her to say "I'm sorry."

She waves her hand down before he speaks and shakes her head. "We had to do it eventually," she says. She looks down at House, who seems to be in his characteristic sulk mode. She could usually predict his reactions before. A bad day at work and he'd spend hours running it out.  
A bad fight and he might get a little drunk, crawl home, and initiate make-up sex. Nothing overtly bothered him because he could always take it out in his physicality. Now she has to be careful of everything she says and does because the release has become emotional and verbal. He can't run away anymore. She can't be too overbearing. She can't be too sympathetic. A wrong word or gesture and he'll either ignore her for days or verbally lash her for every last thing she's ever done incorrectly.

"It's going to be another few hours before they get everything down and into the truck. Wanna get some lunch?"

The question is neutral enough that House has no other answer except a sigh and a nod. He grabs the wooden crutches at his side and Stacy lets him get to his feet himself. They follow to Wilson's car.

Lunch is nearly silent and full of unspoken accusations. Stacy thinks of better days when she and Greg would talk for hours. Now she's lucky to have a sentence of civilized conversation a day. The sentence happens over lunch: "I've been thinking of getting a piano- a real one, maybe a baby grand." Stacy immediately perks up as she swallows the soup. She's not sure it will fit. She's not sure they can afford it, but it's the only positive thing she's heard from him all day. "I think it's a great idea, honey. Want to check them out tomorrow?" 


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (11/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis.

* * *

"For fuck's sake, Neil! I'm crippled!" House yells up the stairs as his direct supervisor, Neil Mattioli, walks up them without turning. "You can't do this!" .

"Talk to the EAP, House. I can't do anything else for you."

He still doesn't turn when he's speaking, and House stares at the back of his head in disbelief. Neil Mattioli has just canned him. One moment, Mattioli was motioning him over for a walk towards the elevators. The next, he had pulled House into his office, telling him that he was a liability, unable to function both physically and psychologically, that maybe he should look into doing research instead. He'd given House a stack of paperwork, told him to sign it, check with Employee Assistance if he needed help, and "good luck." Then Mattioli had risen to his feet, held out his hand (which House refused to take) and started towards the hallway and eventually the stairs. House had followed as quick as he could, arguing to give him more time. It had only been a year, he would get better, he could be a doctor again. But his supervisor had a made a decision.

House turns and nearly bowls over Lisa Cuddy. They both stumble, reaching for the other. Both of them end up still standing, but Cuddy's face is awkwardly planted on his chest. "Dr. House, I'm…"

"Get off of me."

She backs away, smoothing out her jacket.

"Are you okay? Did I…?"

"Fine. Great," he responds, anger apparent in the tense set of his mouth and posture. She begins to say something else, but it doesn't come.

Having regained his balance, he turns and heads towards the exit of the hospital as Cuddy watches him storm off best he can.

She has no idea what's set him off, but she'll learn soon enough. The only thing she does know is that every time she sees him, a cold slithering guilt slides into her throat and she's rendered nearly speechless.

When she runs into Wilson later on, he's having lunch with Stacy and neither of them know where House has gone. He was due for a PT session at eleven, but when Stacy showed up to be his cheering squad, he wasn't there. Wilson and Stacy had both dialed his cell, but House didn't pick up. When Cuddy tells them what she heard from O'Brian, another nephrologist who works with House under Mattioli, Wilson buries his face in his hands and Stacy crosses her arms.

Upon hearing the news, Stacy immediately starts thinking of a thousand ways that House can sue the hospital. In the next five minutes, she also figures out a few ways that House can sue both her and Cuddy.

Wilson feels so sick to his stomach that he can't finish lunch. He tells his boss that he's sick and he's going home, but then follows Stacy in her car. They head to the apartment first, but he's not there. From there, they split up and begin checking all of his local haunts.

It is almost four when Wilson stares up at the sign on the brick wall: "Charlie's Pub." He and House went there once- years ago, before Stacy, and got plastered on cheap tequila. It had been part celebration, part pity party. Wilson was divorced. House got hired. The bar was within walking distance to the hospital. Afterwards, they decided that it hadn't been the best place to get rowdy and that they wouldn't go back. The crowd was shifty and the prostitutes and drug dealers might as well have been wearing gold stars. Wilson mutters a whispered "Great" under his breath and goes into the bar.

Neon beer signs light the bar's walls and a few mid afternoon lowlifes cling to the shadows. Despite the sparse crowd, cigarette smoke still hangs in the air and the jukebox is blasting some obnoxiously fast country song.

House is at the bar, shoulders hunched over a glass containing a clear amber liquid and a few half melted ice cubes. The bartender, a short and grubby balding guy with navy tattoos up and down his arms, looks to Wilson as he sits on the bar stool next to House. "Want a drink?" Wilson shakes his head. "Then you ain't got no business here."

"I'm his ride." Wilson says, not even angry. He's expected it from this place.

"Don't need a _ride._" House, obviously drunk, slurs the words and the 'i' in ride is just a little too long.

"I think you do."

"How many has he had?" Wilson eyes the half empty glass on the bar and realizes, for the first time, that a pill bottle is sitting on the bar counter as well, closer to House so that it was at first hidden in the shadow.

The bartender wipes down glasses and shrugs a silent nonchalance.

"And you didn't notice that he _might_ be on medication?" Wilson barks, anger welling.

"Half the guys come in here on _medication_," the barkeep replies. "He ain't no different."

"I should report you."

House tosses the rest of the glass back and swallows. His throat is almost numb now and everything is going down easily. He reaches for the pills and begins fumbling to get the cap off. Wilson grabs them and stuffs them into his own pocket. He knows it's a risk, and that House might retaliate, but it's the only thing he knows to do. House's fist closes on air and he pounds the wood of the bar once before sighing and falling into a brief blank stare. After a moment, he holds up a finger and motions at the bartender. Wilson clamps a hand down on House's wrist and shakes his head at the bartender. 

"He's done. How much does he owe you?" Wilson asks, pulling out his wallet. At the motion, House breaks out of his brief inactivity, reaches into his coat pocket, and throws a money clip full of his credit cards, identification, and cash on the counter. "I've got money. Take it. Who gives a fuck…"

He trails off as he reaches for his cane, hooked on the metal bar underneath the counter. When he stands, he predictably sways. Wilson grabs House's arm to steady him while still trying to negotiate the tab with the bartender. It comes to over fifty dollars. Wilson grabs a few bills from House's money clip and places them on the wood. It's far too much money for a single guy at a bar. House has either been drinking high-priced scotch or he's had a lot of cheap scotch. Wilson bets on the latter and slides the money clip into his own pocket.

When they turn towards the door, Wilson's arm is still on him, trying to steady him on the right side. House keeps leaning too far over and hasn't been using the cane long enough to develop a normal rhythm. A fall wouldn't hurt him immediately, but it would suck in the morning. Halfway to the door, House seems to realize that someone is touching him and he shrugs away from Wilson, nearly toppling.

"Wouldn't do that," Wilson says, grabbing House again. "You're not exactly steady on that thing yet."

"Steadier than _you_."

Wilson purses his lips and stays silent. Getting to the car, surprisingly, goes without another hitch.

House starts feeling in his pockets as soon as Wilson is at the wheel. Wilson looks over at him, annoyed, but refuses to say anything. House has been on Vicodin since coming off the crutches a few weeks ago. Wilson knows that the prescription was filled yesterday, yet the bottle is half empty.

"I left my pills," House mumbles as the car starts.

"I've got them."

"Give." He reaches a hand over the console.

Wilson says nothing and instead reaches for his cell phone. He dials Stacy. Before he can get two words out, House is trying to yell, making conversation impossible.

"'sdat her? Huh? Fucking...!" He slams his fist into the console, but it doesn't give under his fist. The Volvo is invincible. "I can't…" he trails off, bringing his hands back to his lap and staring out the window. He turns his head to Wilson for a half moment and murmurs something like "I want to hate her..." Then he seems to settle, looks down at the floorboards between his feet and clinches his fists. Wilson is grateful, for once, that the alcohol and pills have made House unable to communicate because he doesn't want to hear what House might be trying to say. The only downside is that when House spills half the scotch and a few pills onto the floorboards, he is unable to tell Wilson that it is about to happen.

Stacy and Wilson get on either side of House and half carry him into the apartment. By now he's close to unconsciousness and with the exception of the occasional grunt, he's silent. Wilson wants to throw him into a cold bath. But Stacy insists on the bed and a cool cloth, under threat from Wilson that she'll have a bigger mess to clean up tomorrow.

As it happens, it's not Stacy that gets to clean up the mess. By the time morning comes, Stacy is packing an overnight bag and heading to a friend's house a few miles down the road. The night has been too much. House awakes from his drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness spilling forth a noxious mix of accusation and anger in between leaning over the bed to heave what is left in his stomach onto the hard wood floors. He won't let Stacy touch him when she tries to help him to the bathroom. Wilson half carries him there himself and follows through on his initial idea right after he urges Stacy out of the room, and eventually out of the apartment.

"You need a break from this," he says to her, hand on her bicep as she crosses her arms. House is quiet and dripping wet on the bathroom floor and they have moved into the living room to talk. "Go to Karen's and get some rest. He'll be better tomorrow. It's just a bad day…" A single tear drops quickly down her face and she makes no move to wipe it away. Her eyes keep darting over Wilson's shoulder, looking at House's slumped form in the bathroom down the hall. This has been nearly a year in coming- bottled rage dripping out in angry sarcasm, but building all the same until bursting forth a geyser. "Okay," she responds, but she knows this is the beginning of the end.


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (12/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis.

* * *

She's hauling box by box out of the apartment and down the two steps of the entrance as he sits on the couch, drunk and silent. The things she's hauling are slight- a few dishes, some clothes, her hairdryer and makeup. He doesn't seem to care because he's still bent over a bottle of bourbon and his bottle of pills is too close for comfort.

The day has been on the tip of the tongue for over a year now. She'd endured his frustration as he moved from the wheelchair to crutches to the cane. She'd waited out his seemingly off-target anger at the weather or her parents or the electric razor she'd bought him for Christmas. Both of them thought that this time would come to pass- that he would be able to be return to the game, forget that she surpassed his directives, and ruined him. But so much has happened and there can be no reversal.

The days that they remained together stretched on and on and it seemed they were neither moving forwards nor backwards. Each direction required effort that neither one of them had the courage or will to take. He went to therapy and took the required falls. He tried to push it and she did her duty and told him to take it easy. There were still days when he could hardly move for the pain, but his orthopedist insisted that it shouldn't be this bad and reduced his Vicodin prescription to Codeine. On the days when the pain was overwhelming, House would call off of his limited workday and drop onto the couch, where he'd spend the day with his journals or his books, half watching daytime television spill out it's melodramatic reality with his leg propped up on pillows. More often than not, Stacy caught him downing excess pills with a bourbon chaser. On those days, he wasn't living, he was just enduring with a sort of silent and still antithesis to the rest of the world.

Then, three weeks ago, the physical therapist pushed her luck on a particularly bad day. House had been trying to use the cane like they said- left hand on the handle, cane and leg swinging and stopping at the same time. It wasn't working for him and the therapist, accustomed to the awkwardness of the process, pushed him still harder, ignoring his complaints. House tolerated the therapist's pleas for fifteen minutes before taking the cane in his right hand and lurching out of the door with an apologetic Stacy trailing behind. Just a day after he'd left physical therapy for the last time, Neil Mattioli filed the necessary paperwork to get House discharged from his position. House had missed almost seven months of work in the past year and he was calling in sick at least once a week- even with only working half days. However, in terminating him, Mattioli obliterated the last of House's attainable goals. Now, there would be no reaching towards full-time days, no hope of getting back to the real work.

Instead, House began reaching the very attainable goal of consuming enough drugs and alcohol to numb him to everything. The alcohol didn't mellow him, it lowered his inhibitions and loosened his tongue. The more he drank, the more open he became and the situation hit what Stacy considered the point of no return. She couldn't convince him that anything was going to change for the better. Then she couldn't convince herself.

Her lies to herself and to him are just sinking them further into the quicksand. So she's made her decision.

He hasn't said a word to her since last night.

She comes back into the apartment and looks around, putting her hands on her hips and looking around. It's hard to leave, but she has to go. She's got a new place- an hour north- and she's looking for a job up there because the commute will be a bitch. And she can't be near him anymore. The break must be clean and complete. He'll be better off without her around.

When she looks towards the couch, she almost changes her mind. He's staring right through her and all her reservations, she's sure, are oozing out of her pores, as obvious as the light of day. Despite all the booze and the pills, there is also a depth of hurt and regret and love and all the things that should keep her in Princeton. Her shoulders drop and she sighs.

"Will you talk to me?" she asks.

He shakes his head and pours back the last in the glass, grimacing as it burns his throat. It's still early and he's not yet numbed.

Her hand slaps the air, lands on her hip. "Fine."

For House, this moment has come and gone a thousand times in the past few months- if only in his head. He knows she's going to leave him and that he won't do anything about it. He's known it since they moved into the new place. Right after his release from the hospital, when he found out she was smoking, he figured it would pass. They'd get through this time, he'd get better, and she'd get over it. For a while, it seemed like she was smoking a little less, or she'd figured out how to hide it better. Within two weeks of moving into the new place, however, he made an internal bet that she was up to a pack a day because he started smelling it everywhere.

He smells it in her hair when her back is turned to him in bed. He tastes it on her lips, through the Listerine and the gum. Hell, he smells it now on the couch pillows and he sniffs in mild disgust. It's not that he hasn't smoked. He will not be a hypocrite. But she thinks he doesn't know. She thinks she's being sly. He's not an idiot and he's not ignorant. He knows about her guilt and it's been building for weeks. She's planned this. It's as much about the consent form as it is about the leaving. The only reason she's stayed this long is because she feels guilty for even thinking of leaving the man she's crippled. It's her duty to take care of him now, only he never wanted it that way. This is what has gotten them into trouble in the first place.

All the drugs, all the alcohol that he's poured down his gullet the past few weeks only increase his anger. He thinks that maybe, just maybe if she would be a bitch to him- tell him to fuck off and get over it- that he might do that. They'd have one good yelling match and then it would be done. But she doesn't tell him anything anymore. She mothers him in the morning, asks what he would like to do during the day, tells him everything will be okay at night. It isn't okay. He wants her to acknowledge that, but she keeps up her facade and smokes when he's not looking. He wonders if she's not venting somewhere else. A psychiatrist maybe. Or just a friend instead of him. Is it just the smoking she's lying about? It doesn't matter now.

At some point in the last two weeks, he's pushed her past breaking. Only she didn't break in the way he wanted. She didn't cry, didn't scream. He kept pushing and pushing. The alcohol and codeine mixture made it easier to ignorethe red in her eyes and the way she gasps her hurt. And then as he'd ranted on and on the previous night, she'd calmly tapped her pen on the memo pad sitting before her on the kitchen table. (She always has that memo pad now. What does she write?) He can't remember exactly what he'd said, but at the utterance, she'd sighed, looked up, and said "Then I'll leave tomorrow." Somehow, he knew it was the break he'd predicted, but it didn't make it right. It didn't make sense unless she'd already been planning it. After a silent and stifling pause, she'd gone out (for a cigarette) while he poured himself another drink.

When she came back, she immediately started packing and he'd turned up the television volume, gulped a glass of Maker's Mark, and poured another. He wants to do the same now, but there's one more thing he needs. One more thing to try.

Stacy retreats to the bedroom to check there for forgotten things. The apartment isn't the same, but she hasn't forgotten the time they spent in their bed. Or the way his neck smelled when she wrapped her arms around him while he was haphazardly cooking pancakes on a Sunday morning. When she looks back into the living room, she sees the couch that so often cradled them after long days of work; the kitchen table on which she'd served Christmas dinner to both their parents while House looked on- guarded and reluctant. It was the closest thing to a marriage she'd ever had- though neither of them would ever say it. Her eyes begin to water at the memory and of the things she's losing. She swipes them away, angry.

When she turns, he is standing at the door, blocking her path. Despite the cane and the pyjama bottoms, he is still a force to be reckoned with and she doesn't want to hurt him.

"I have to go," she says. But it's not hard to see that she's on the verge of tears.

He steps towards her, leaning down to face her. His expression seems outwardly neutral, his mouth creased in a straight line. His eyes, red-rimmed, are boring through her and she lets them. She leans a little towards him and within moments, he's managed to push her onto the bed and rid them of half their clothes.

Four hours later, Stacy opens her eyes and looks into House's face, which rests against the pillow. His mouth is slack, eyes shut, and he's peaceful. He's the person she fell in love with instead of the angry man he's become. She brings her hand up and touches his cheek and his face moves into it, unconsciously wanting more. It makes her recoil. It can never be the same. When his eyes open, the hate will return.

Stacy rolls out of the bed quietly and grabs for her clothes in the dark. She doesn't dare look at his sleeping form and thus doesn't see him watching her.

When she shuts the door behind her, House rolls over to his stomach and buries his head in the pillow. He's done the only thing of which he's capable. And it didn't work. It's over.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (13/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis.

* * *

Wilson is carrying the dog up the stairs when the phone rings inside. Bonnie is out of town and he's been waiting for a call from the lab about a thirteen year old leukemia patient's latest bloodwork. He can't miss this call- it's that important- so he turns on his heel, rushing back inside just in time to catch it. But it's the not the lab- it's Stacy. 

From the sound of her voice, he knows she's been crying. It isn't hard to tell from the nasal tone and the occasional stuttering breaths. Wilson knows that she'll need him to meet her later. She needs to vent it to him so he'll understand. He needs to hear it from her because he's the last thing House will have after she's gone.

She's done it, she says to him. She's packed her last bag and she's heading to Short Hills in a few days. She's been staying with Karen because the lease on the new place doesn't start until next week. He knew it was coming. He'd caught her last month with rental ads spread out on her desk and the phone at her ear asking about the amenities. She'd tried to pass it off as being unhappy in their new place, but she is a horrible liar when it comes to this issue between her and House. She'd confessed everything to Wilson and had sworn him to secrecy. She'd told him that she was waiting for the right moment, waiting for the right place, and maybe even the right job before she left. Any break that she was going to make was going to be clean. No looking back, because she'd been done with trying two months prior. She's exhausted. Wilson had had the passing hope that she'd just had a bad day because nothing was said afterwards until now.

Wilson shuffles in the doorway, not quite knowing what to say but feeling like a hole is being dug through the middle of his stomach. He should've done more to stop this.

"He doesn't mean it," Wilson tries. "What he says…"

"He means it all," she responds. "And he's right."

Dinner between Stacy and Wilson is awkward to say the least. Stacy pushes food around on her plate and spills out every last thing that's gone wrong. Wilson nods and is quick to take the next bite. He's said he's sorry a thousand times and what she needs is an ear, not his own emotional baggage. Afterwards, Wilson drops Stacy off at Karen's place and heads directly to House's apartment. It's after 9PM and Wilson hasn't seen or spoken to House in the past three days. He's been busy with work, with trying to cure the incurable, with his own version of personal crises at home. Bonnie doesn't trust him. Bonnie says she might not love him.

Wilson knocks for a few minutes, but when he gets no response, he uses the key Stacy has given him. The place is dark and it smells a little. Dirty dishes, dusty floors, alcohol, and cigar smoke. It's an abrupt change in just a few days. He remembers the other place where House used to live and the day Stacy moved in- the sunlight reflecting off of light wooden floors, the smell of new sheets and of a woman's touch. Surely this change will convince House to apologize, ask her to come back, do something that will take this all away and put it back the way it was.

Wilson flicks a switch on the wall and sees House lying on the couch. His head is tilted back so far that Wilson knows he'll wake up with a crick in his neck. One arm lies haphazardly across his forehead, the other on his right hip, which is elevated on a pillow. An empty bottle of Maker's Mark and a half empty lowball are on the coffee table. And a half empty prescription bottle.

Wilson sighs and finds the remote control for the television underneath a newspaper covered with cigar ash. He turns the television on and it's tuned to a major network- Chicago Hope. House used to get a laugh out of these shows and Wilson settles into the recliner to the right of House's couch to see if he still can.

House first starts to stir when the first ad break comes on and the volume comes up to annoy watchers and generate commercial awareness. His hand comes down over his face and he turns his neck to the right, into the cushions of the couch. Wilson turns the volume up even more. By the time the next commercial is spouting off the wonders of Listerine, Wilson is almost tired of this game. He wants House to wake up and talk to him about this. But he doesn't. When the show comes back on, Wilson looks over to see House staring at him through thin and angry eyes.

"You're awake."

House doesn't reply. He shuts his eyes and swallows thickly. When he opens his eyes again, he says: "Go away."

"I'm watching television," Wilson says. He isn't really. He's waiting. But focuses his attention on the show to prove his point.

When the show ends, the news comes on and Wilson watches the events of the New Jersey day play across the dusty screen. As the news team flashes bleached smiles across millions of televisions, House levers himself up against the back of the couch. Wilson watches him blink a few times, shake his head, rub his mouth with the back of his hand. He's wasted.

"You need anything?"

"Nope. Told you: go away."

"I think we need to talk."

"No talking."

"I know this is… difficult…"

"It isn't. Go 'way."

"Yeah, it's so easy that you've been on what? A three day bender now? Come on…"

House's eyes squint and he reaches down for his pills. Wilson is being Wilson again. Always has to talk out everything. House prefers action and the one action he has left now is a swallow. How many now? Had two earlier. Looks at his watch. Two pills four hours ago. And a shitload of bourbon. He's down to half the bottle of pills- fifteen. And the bourbon…. It's a lamentable fact that the bourbon is gone. He'll send out Wilson as soon as he's done with whatever he has to say. But first, there is a toilet calling his name from the back of the apartment. And once he is there, he can take a piss and swallow pills to his heart's content without the stare that Wilson has been giving him for the past ten minutes.

The walls tilt when he stands, but the cane plants firm on the hardwood floor. His hand moves along the back of the couch, then along the wall. He's tired and sore and the bedroom looks almost as good as the bathroom. But bathroom first. He wonders if Wilson will stick around and do more spouting. Hopefully not until the next few pills kick into gear. Maybe he can convince Wilson to get the bourbon before the rant begins. That would ease it a bit.

Whatever Wilson has got to say isn't admissible in court. The divorce is over. Not really a divorce, but close enough. It doesn't matter anymore since Stacy is gone and not coming back.

Stop it. This is the point where he decides not to think so much about it anymore.

He's reached the bathroom by now and stands in front of the mirror. Something he does everyday, but less and less now. He doesn't want to see it anymore.

Stop it. Doesn't matter.

He swallows two pills easily. Takes a piss. Stands at the sink. Maybe two more. Maybe four. How many is that now? All his thoughts jumbled and boy is he drunk. Drunk as a skunk. But he's ready to go face Wilson's tirade. Geesh, he's been in this bathroom forever. First pills already worn off perhaps. Or maybe he threw up. He can't remember now. Two more pills maybe. Just in case. Stop the pain before it gets really bad.

The couch feels good, but he realizes as soon as he sits that he meant to head to his bed instead. Because Wilson is still on the recliner, staring at him and half-watching television. It seems brighter in the room now that he's back in it and he squints, looking around and trying to see which lights are on that shouldn't be.

"Maybe you should look into some therapy, House." Wilson's got an idea how to start, but this wasn't the original plan. It's a slip up. House looks like crap and that fact alone makes Wilson realize the seriousness of the situation.

After a moment's silence House doesn't respond. Instead he says: "I'm outta toilet paper."

"You can't keep pushing people away, House. You need to accept that things…"

"And I'm hungry. No groceries. All out."

House looks at the ceiling, the walls, the television screen- everything but the other man in the room. Wilson tries unsuccessfully to catch his eye and engage him in the conversation he wants to have. So he looks back to the television instead. Someone was murdered on the parkway today; city council vetoed the motion for a new park at the corner of 10th and M. More snow expected overnight.

"Look- Bonnie and I have been seeing… someone, so maybe he can recommend…"

"You and Bonnie are going to be divorced this time next year. Wanna know how I know that?" His speech is labored and slow, as if he has to think about every word he's saying. 

Wilson flinches as he continues to watch the images on screen. It's a blow beneath the belt. But he tries to recover, move on, and place one of his own. "Well you're the one with experience in that department. Why don't you tell me how it feels?"

"Only problem I've got is getting someone to do the shopping. Guess you're it." House sighs, leans back on the couch. "TP. Food. Need them. Never know when you're gonna have to drop the kids off at the pool. Especially on narcotics." He grins a little, and a puff of air escapes his lips in a half laugh. "So… snap snap." 

Wilson's hands are up in temporary resignation. Maybe some food will make House sober up a bit and make him a little less defensive. Maybe. Not probable. This is going to take some time.

"And bourbon. You know what I like." House motions towards the empty bottle of Maker's Mark. Wilson shakes his head, stands, and shuts the door behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, Wilson is standing in the line at the nearest convenience store trying to let the lull of elevator music calm him. It's not that he's mad exactly. Not at House. Not at Stacy. That wouldn't make sense. He is frustrated though and he needs a plan. A half hour escape can work miracles. But instead he's watching as the lady in front of him uses archaic check writing as a payment method. It takes forever and Wilson can't help but sigh and tap his fingers a little on the handle of the cart. But when the woman looks at him, he smiles back then shifts his gaze to the tabloids. He's a nice guy, after all. He's nice. (Oprah has gained 50 pounds.) Even his wife, who hates him right now, thinks he's nice. (Whitney Houston's been busted for possession at the airport.) Hell, everyone accuses him of it. Too nice probably- rolling joints for patients. But what guy wouldn't make a grocery store run for a laid up buddy? (Another celebrity committed to drug rehab after an overdose). He wrote his first prescription for House two weeks ago. And that pill bottle on the table. Had it been empty? Or full? Because he called one in just two days before. It should've been almost full. It most definitely wasn't.

Wilson's breath catches in his throat and he feels his heartbeat jump up a notch despite his immobility. House was drunk. House was high. Too drunk. And there were too many pills gone from that bottle.

"Sir?" He looks up, startled. The check-writing woman is gone and he's still got the groceries in his cart. He smiles again, because he is a nice but oblivious guy, and unloads them.

He drives too fast on the newly snow covered roads and arrives back at House's just a quarter after eleven. Trying to balance safety and speed tries his patience and the heat blowing in the car makes him sweat more than he should. The front stoop has an inch of snow on it and he nearly slips trying to maintain his balance with his arms full of groceries. Shifting both bags to one arm, he wrestles with the locked door and just manages to get inside before the toilet paper falls onto the floor. He mutters a curse and walks the remainder of the groceries into the kitchen, where he deposits them on the center island before turning back to the living room. He's managed to convince himself that it's fine and that in just a few minutes, he'll warm up one of the frozen dinners and make House drink a gallon of water and maybe some of the Gatorade. Nothing's wrong. But it doesn't play out the way he wants.

House appears to have fallen asleep again but there is something strange about the way he lays on the couch. His face is up towards the ceiling, but his body is turned- as if he hadn't been able to get the air he needed. The position looks uncomfortable at best so Wilson puts a hand on his shoulder. He is struck by how cold House seems, but yet he doesn't wake. His skin is clammy.

"House."

There is no response and Wilson watches his friend's chest for a moment, seeing it rise and fall, but far too slowly to be normal. Wilson counts five breaths in 30 seconds. He repeats the name, shaking House's shoulder, but still nothing. "Dammit," he murmurs, looking to the now empty pill bottle on the table. Wilson grimaces and, after balling his fist, rubs his knuckles against House's t-shirt clad chest.

House grunts and tries to move away from the contact. Wilson grasps his shoulders and turns House so that he's on his side. His limbs are loose and pliable.

"House," he repeats. His voice is loud. He's sure the neighbors can hear him. "How much did you take?" House's head moves slightly, burrowing into the couch. The fact that he's moving is little consolation.

Wilson is nearing panic now. He's a doctor. But he isn't sure what he should do. If he can't rouse House, he'll have to call 911, report an overdose, and House will end up in a rehab clinic being assessed for suicidal tendencies. He knows that House is upset over the events of the past few months, but he's not suicidal. Wilson rubs at House's sternum again and this gets a mumbled "stopit" from him.

He grabs House under his arms and sits him against the couch, which is just soft enough to hold a body with almost no muscle tone. House's head, however, falls forward, but his eyes are just barely open. Wilson opens them fully and notes his pupils are constricted despite the low light.

"House, you hear me?"

"Na..."

"You took all those pills?" Wilson's voice edges on a sort of calm panic. His fingers are tingling, itching with it. But he wills himself to act more slowly than he feels. The situation isn't desperate- yet.

House manages to throw his head to the back of the couch and he sits there a moment with his mouth open and eyes closed before he attempts a reply. It comes out as something indistinguishable to Wilson. To House, it's an excuse: Stacy left, so he wanted to get drunk; the leg hurt, so he took a Vicodin or two. It isn't a difficult equation, but it's produced something unexpected. So much for sobriety. House rubs his lips, his eyes blinking and unfocused.

Suddenly, the blurred image of Wilson slips in front of him, bending down. Arms wrap around him and he is suddenly standing, wavering on unsteady legs. The right is fiercely angry at this new situation and immediately fails, but House doesn't fall. Wilson's got an arm wrapped around him- a steady presence in a world that is suddenly and (given the amount of intoxicants that he has thrown into his system) predictably wobbly. Wilson starts to walk and House wants to tell him to stop- that he can't do this, doesn't have the energy, his leg hurts, that he's going to throw up. But words were lost somewhere around the time that the last sip of bourbon hit his already narcotic infused bloodstream.

Wilson slips his fingers through the belt loops on House's jeans and jams his shoulder underneath House's right arm. His left arm steadies House from the front. This way, he's supporting most of his weight, but it's still not easy. Get the victim up and moving around if possible. That's what they'd taught him back when he worked on the hotline in undergrad. Get them up and moving and keep them awake even if you have to hold them up. And the more you hold them up, the more they'll feel all that dizziness and confusion that comes with intoxication. What they didn't tell the victims calling in was that puking was probably inevitable if you could get them up and standing. Puking would be a positive event at the moment. Come on, House. Puke it up. Wilson knows he'll regret thinking it soon enough, but right now he's focused. House only manages a step of his own every three or four steps and Wilson doesn't know how long either of them can keep this up.

The minutes tick by and they circle the living room in a slow cadence. House counts three times that he sees the lamp on his left before he finally manages to stop Wilson's relentless pace. The pain outweighs his intoxication. "Ssstop," he manages in a half gasp. "Stop." His stomach rebels. A bulbous mass of half digested food and whole pills and a lot of bourbon spill out of his mouth and nose. He vaguely registers Wilson's curse, but the walking doesn't stop.

Instead, he is suddenly forced towards the back of the apartment, towards the bathroom. House tries to resist, but it doesn't quite work out the way he wants. Before he can get a grasp on what, exactly, is happening, Wilson has him sitting in the corner of the bathroom propped up against the tub and he's got the showerhead in his hand, pointing it down at House. The cold water hits him like acid and he gasps and splutters like a fish on the deck of a boat. Consciousness is suddenly a bitch, because he feels every stream of icy cold hitting his skin.

Within moments he's shivering. He's sure his lips are blue and his fingers are losing feeling from the cold of the water. Wilson shuts off the spray and leaves the bathroom, only to return a moment later and throw a towel at House. It hits him square in the face, and it takes him a moment before he can will his hands to pick it up.

"Dry off," Wilson says. There is no compassion in his voice.

"Bastar..," House whispers between shivers. Without warning, he vomits onto the floor. It's more this time- and mostly liquid. Wilson's hands are on his hips and he stares at everything but House as his mouth opens again and he vomits twice more. Sink. Moldy shower curtain. Blue rug. Green towel. He's seen plenty of vomiting in his life. He's an oncologist. But the sound of his best friend retching almost causes him physical pain. And House's face is screwed up in agony as his stomach turning inside out. House has puked all over Wilson's brand new shirt and a good pair of slacks and Wilson makes to wipe some of it off while trying to avoid the sight and sound of retching from the corner. Finally, House's head relaxes against the corner of the tub and he gives a hiccupped sigh.

"You're an idiot. Dry off. And get the wet crap off. I'll bring you something else."

Twenty minutes later, House is on the couch while Wilson sits in front of him on the coffee table trying not to gag at the stench coming from his own clothes. He'd gotten an extra shirt from his car, but he didn't have any extra pants and soap and water only did so much for the smell.

"Did anyone tell you that taking obscene amounts of narcotics doesn't mix well with obscene amounts of bourbon? Or did you skip that class?"

"I was getting drunk off campus."

House pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders then sips at the coffee steaming from the mug in his hand. The coffee is too bitter and there's no half-and-half or sugar. But at least it's washing down the remains of the activated charcoal Wilson made him drink. His mouth is gritty. Who the hell keeps a first responder bag in his trunk? Wilson, ever the Boy Scout.

"Have you talked to her?"

Her. Her being the lady next door? Upstairs? One of the many nurses he'd pissed off at therapy? Cuddy perhaps. The female cat that's been prancing around outside the apartment taunting all the boys? Or the ubiquitous her of his former live-in girlfriend. "No, Wilson, I haven't talked to her," House responds, hate seeping through his exhaustion. 

Wilson sighs and backs away from his position, which has, for the past five minutes, been in House's face, taking pulse, examining pupil response, wrapping fingers around a mug of coffee. "Do you have any…"

"Nope."

Wilson looks down, thinking carefully about what he needs to say. The impending questions he needs to ask aren't something he wants to confront. But he must. It's something taught to every med student, every nurse for every patient that has done something stupid- whether it was passing out from alcohol, downing a hundred pills, or cutting their wrists. Talk to them; send in the social worker.

Wilson doesn't believe House has it in him to commit the unthinkable. He'd have some reason like that the Yankees haven't had a losing season yet, or that next year Mars, Venus, and Jupiter would come into perfect alignment and the world will end anyway. It's primarily curiosity and an unquenchable urge to know it all and show it. These factors don't convince Wilson that he doesn't have to broach the subject. Not when House is asking him to take over his prescription permanently and not when he's just lost just about everything that enabled him to do what he loves.

Wilson sits back on the coffee table and brings his hands under his chin, putting them together and squeezing them. He takes advantage of House taking a sip from the coffee and speaks. "I need to know if you did this on purpose."

House grins around the mouthful of coffee and swallows. He's expected this conversation and already has his response ready. "Yes. I like bourbon. I like to be not in pain."

"You know the dangers… I should get you to an ER right now..."

"I was drunk," House responds, looking up at Wilson over the cup in his hands. Then he pauses and puts the cup down. Wilson, he knows, holds the ability now to stop his medication, to mandate some sort of crap emotional therapy he doesn't need. It hadn't been terribly difficult to convince Wilson to start prescribing him the stronger narcotic that he so obviously needed to function- but House knows that his recent actions might have a detrimental effect on continued pain relief. "I screwed up. It happens again and you can tell me to fuck off and leave me to rot."

Wilson nods; he tries to believe it. And then he tries to remember House before Stacy so that he can get a picture of what to expect in normality. The memories are too far behind them now and too much has gone wrong for it to ever be normal again. House won't change. And Stacy won't come back.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (14/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis.

* * *

The weather has finally turned for the better and sweat greases the inside of House's wool coat as he makes his way towards the entrance of Boston Mercy. The handicapped ramp is fifty feet off to the side, but there are at least ten steps directly in front of him- an obstacle that he'd rather not pursue. The extra steps he has to take to the ramp are not a problem these days. The only problem lately has been his decreasing ability to pay his bills on time. He qualifies for disability, but no one ever claimed that you could live on government-provided checks alone and his savings are running low. So much for retirement. He sold his old motorcycle to pay the rent two months ago. This month's rent is already a week late, and the payments to his private health insurance have maxed out his credit twice. He finally bit the bullet and canceled it last month and since then, he's relied on medicare, but he's still got a year until the prescription drug benefit will kick into gear. He hasn't been this broke since college, and he'd forgotten what it's like to live on ramen and cheap beer. It isn't any fun. He casually asks Wilson for money here and there, claiming that he owes him from some dinner ten years ago or for some unremembered help on one of his cancer patients. Wilson never questions where the money goes and House never volunteers the information, but he's tired of the dependency. So he's here, at one more job interview, having promised Wilson he would do his best not to screw this one up.

He takes a breath of the warm spring air and lets it out as the automatic doors open, revealing the sterilized interior of Boston Mercy Hospital. Every time he goes to one of these, he wants his old life back even more. The hallways in Princeton didn't smell like this, did they? They smelled like him or his office or Stacy's perfume. He is no longer home. He walks across the blue and white linoleum in the way that he's been practicing for the past three years. He catches his reflection in the set of tinted office windows to his right. He looks confident enough and his gait has steadied out- most days anyway- and he's even gotten quick with the cane. However, without it and the pills, he's practically a useless old cripple. There's gray in his hair now that wasn't there before. And maybe the beard makes him look older. Earlier that morning, he stared at himself with the razor in his hand for five minutes, debating on whether or not to do it. In the end, he simply ran out of time.

There's a hospital greeter standing ten feet in front of the reception desk, looking eager, but professional. He's young, probably twenty five, and House guesses he's either in a pre-med program or nursing student aiming to get an 'in.' He hopes it's the former. Nursing is a cop out. And House hates the suck-ups unless they're sucking up to him.

"Can I help you find anyone, sir?"

"Dr. Vickers. I'm here for an interview."

The kid turns on his heel and jump steps over to the reception desk, throwing the phone into his left hand with practiced ease. The kid probably weighs in at 160 and he's spry as a motherfucker. An athlete- some team sport, soccer or hockey. Probably runs in his spare time, lifts some weights because his biceps look snug in the jacket. He casually cocks his right knee over his left as he leans over the phone and presses the numbers. House steps closer into the desk, wincing a little when he takes just a little too much weight on his leg. The kid murmurs a few sentences into the phone and hangs up. He's midway through telling House where to go, when he suddenly looks up and starts towards the entryway, bounding in a little jump step walk while throwing up his index finger to House. The kid grabs a woman's purse from the ground and hands it back to her right hand. A wide-eyed toddler occupies her left arm, and she smiles gratefully. As soon as the purse is picked up, the kid steps back to House and continues: "Fourth floor, turn to your right. Dr. Vickers' office is third on the left. There's a waiting room there. He knows you're here." Great. Perfect. Perfect little bastard who does his job and more.

Forty five minutes later, he's sitting in the office waiting room, pleasantly buzzed and not particularly worried that his appointment is already thirty minutes behind. His flight back to Trenton isn't until evening- plenty of time. He smiles a little to himself and leans into the chair. Maybe he took one too many because he's feeling a little too good. Just one more than he normally did. That wasn't so much, right? The damn things work so well and so predictably that he can practically count time by them. Thirty minutes after a swallow and his leg pain reduces so much that he has trouble stifling an automatic sigh of relief. Between hours one and three, he's perfectly normal- back to his old self almost with the exception of the limp and the vaguest of aches. If he stays off his feet, it's even better and he almost forgets about it. In hour four, he has to double dose on espresso or take a nap and he starts to feel just a bit queasy and in hour five, he's learned to dose up again because by hour six, he'll be screwed. And the whole cycle repeats. His life, now, is dictated dose by dose. Thank you, Stacy.

"Dr. House?" A balding man in his late forties steps out of the office and holds the door and his hand. "I'm Dr. Vickers."

House stands, awkwardly shifts the cane from right to left, and shakes Vickers' hand. He goes through the doorway and into the bland gray office. In the middle is a rectangular table with two other men and one woman sitting on one side with their hands crossed. Vickers motions at the others and says "This is Dr. Carlisle, head of Infectious Diseases. By his right side is Dr. Kim, our senior board member, and this is Dr. Sams, Chief of Medicine." Sams, older and somewhat grandmotherly, smiles and also holds out her hand. A firm shake, a direct look in the eye for each of them. After shaking their hands, he sits and pulls his leatherbound notebook and CV from his briefcase.

The first half hour consists of the boring standard interview questions- his experience, his expertise, his publications. Then they start in on the roast. He is strung up through the middle and slowly rotated. Each doctor has their turn.

Sams starts it: "It says here you were terminated from Princeton."

"I was sick."

"You were terminated for an inability to conduct your job after reasonable accommodation and you've been on disability since then. What have you been doing since that time?" An easy question- he's had the practice. But he has to swallow a sneer at the term: reasonable.

"I've kept up on the latest developments, techniques for the field. You'll note that I've published two articles since my termination."

"Are you physically able to work if reasonable accommodation is made?"

"Depends on your definition of reasonable," is his first response. He can't help it. It just slips out and it's unmistakably sarcastic. He knows it, but there's no place for it here where every remark made is a strike against him. The already present frown lines on Sams' face deepen. House wipes at his forehead once and attempts to correct. "I've continued doing rehab exercises on my own and I can walk 50 yards, which is substantial improvement over when I left Princeton."

"Why don't you go back there?" she continues.

"Ready for something new, something different." Even if Princeton offers, he will not step so low as to ask for his old job back. He doesn't want all the reminders of what he used to be, the stares he'll endure. More importantly, he doesn't want the reminder of his relationship with one of the hospital's lawyers. Getting as far away as possible has been on his agenda for a while, but logistics were always a complication. "Dr. House, we've uh…" Vickers starts in. "We've uh, well, we're impressed by your expertise and your publications. They were particularly insightful and you have a reputation for catching illnesses before anyone else. Your success rate is outstanding. However, we do have some concerns about your style." Vickers twists a pen in his hand. "You've been arrested twice for breaking into patients' homes and once for assault on the family member of a patient. Reprimanded twice at Princeton for similar incidents. You were fired from the Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit after numerous incidents. Can you explain?"

Here it comes. This is the part where he almost always loses out. It's not that he can't explain it, it's that interviewers deliberately go on the attack at this point. Ever since his infarction and his last job (and the break-up) he hasn't been able to get past it. He used to be able to schmooze it so well. Tell them he's re-mediated, learned from his mistakes.. He has learned from his mistakes- he's learned that he's right more often than not and to always trust his own judgment over anyone else's. Why should he bow to someone and tell them he's sorry and he'll make it right, when he's done nothing wrong? Moreover, he's learned that people will always look out for their own self-interest- no matter the consequences to everyone else. He had allowed one person through his defenses, allowed himself to trust her implicitly, and she'd used it against him. She'd done what anyone else would've done- what they'd all told her to do- but it didn't make it right. Somewhere in the midst of all of this, he's found that his best defense is a good offense. It won't happen again. He's had a lot of time on his hands to work his quarterback.

"The charges were dropped. And what I do is in the best interest of my patients."

"But assaulting a family member?" Carlisle squints, expecting an answer.

"He hit me first. It was self defense."

"Dr. House, if these situations were to occur again, what would your response be?" Carlisle continues. And it's at this point- where House knows the answer that is expected of him, but can't lie to save his own life. He should say that he'll never do it again- that he's learned his lesson. Be a good boy, roll with the punches, yes sir, no sir, and please sir can I have another. But those words get stuck in his throat and something else emerges:

"I'd do the same thing again," he says, confidence apparent in the way his lips form a thin line. His brow rises in anticipation of their stares.

"You realize, Dr. House, that if we were to hire you, we'd be taking significant risks…"

"Then don't hire me. Hire some idiot who can't tell staph from herpes and let him muck up your stats and kill four people. Like the last guy. What was his name? Mullins. That's right. How much did he cost you anyway? Probably better off hiring him back- better to kill people off than risk getting sued for saving lives. Hell, why don't we just take all the sickos and send them to Iraq? Double edged sword- kill them, and kill Saddam while we're at it. Less problems for everyone..."

"Dr. House…" Vickers warns.

"Yeah, way to go on nailing that city council member," House says, directing his comments to Vickers while pushing his chair out to stand. "Heard it did wonders for the hospital's new annex. Terrible about the marriage though…" Vickers' face turns a shade that closely resembles the cherry lollipop House sucked on in place of lunch. The table is silent and pens are capped. "Don't bother standing," House says. "I'll let myself out."

House has his cab driver drop him on the Commons. The temperature has dropped a bit and he dons his coat again, leaving the buttons open. His briefcase is slung over his shoulder, and he's uncomfortable because it isn't easy to walk this way, but he goes into the park and sits at the first opportunity he gets. It's at bleachers facing a scaled down baseball field crowded with eight year old boys and overeager fathers with beer bellies.

He remembers coming here with Stacy once. She'd had a conference and they'd taken a few extra days to ride up on his bike on back roads and eat lobster and look obscenely together in that way that young couples do. They weren't as young as they believed then. He'd felt young then- better than he ever had before. Maybe it was the sex. Or the fact that they did the cheesy things that he always saw other people doing back in college or med school- walking hand in hand, leaving love notes, finding time for a quickie on a lunch break. Then, they'd walked with arms thrown about each other, always touching. Everything outside their world was just an amusement. It'd been late spring and they'd laid on the grass in the park, poking fun at the fat lady with the skinny Dachshund that wouldn't stop digging up the freshly bloomed flowers. He'd had dates and one night stands and a few girls that he had to refer to as a "girlfriend" in front of his parents. But never anything like Stacy. He thought he'd die with her. The end came much sooner than expected and he didn't die.

The flowers there aren't quite there today. It's March- early yet. And Stacy- who knows? Does he care? He doesn't. Shouldn't. It's been three years and eight months since she shut the door and left him for good and nothing much has happened. He's filled his head with a few extra languages and all the latest in three separate medical specialties. But life is devoid of meaning beyond the next cup of coffee. He wakes, he reads, he plays his piano and watches General Hospital. It might as well be life in a retirement home and he hates it for its monotony. She took everything that meant anything from him and if he resented her then, he hates her now.

Even though he'd felt good then, young, he realizes now that it was all for nought. Moreover, the relationship was built around her control of him. She was needy, overprotective, conniving. Tried to change him. Tried to domesticate him. All those nights she pleaded with him to come home early, go to some symphony or play or other boring domestic event where he could pay an exorbitant amount of money to catch up on sleep. He didn't need it then. Never needed it to begin with.

Wilson insists that it was a good thing before and tells him that this phase will pass. House will get over it and it will happen again. In the meantime, Wilson says he should just get laid. What House's best friend doesn't know is that he's been there, done that- or at the very least tried. He'd taken Wilson's advice one night and gone to the bar just around the corner from his apartment. He could even walk there. Four beers and two scotches later, he'd caught the eye of a mid-thirties divorcee and led her back to his place. He wasn't thinking really and he'd left the lights on as he'd clambered out of his clothes. When he turned back towards her, she was naked and staring. It wasn't the stare of a woman impressed or a woman a little bit nervous- it was pity tinged with the upper lip curl of disgust. The leg. It's always the leg now. Even then, he'd tried to continue and she hadn't backed down. But she'd killed his drive and she was pulling on her pants with her back to him five minutes later. It made him blame Stacy all over again. She was a first and a last for him. There was B.S. and A.S. Any future he might've had A.S. has been signed away, anesthetized, and carved out by the very person for which the term was named.

The sun in its early spring white warms the wool jacket again and he's comfortable now that he's draped over the better part of a wooden bench. Just for kicks (why not?) he tosses back another pill. Better than a drink; no walking or cabs required. No hangover later.

In fact, two cab rides, one flight, and five hours later, he's still thinking all too clearly as Wilson bears down on him with hands on his hips and a frown stretching across the contours of his angular face. House is tired from the hassle at the airport and he wants to sleep, but Wilson was waiting for him when he got home. He would've been wise to booze it up at the airport bar instead of sitting on the bench in the park. No way would Wilson try to say anything if House was drunk. And even if he did, House wouldn't care.

"You look ugly like that."

"I thought you were going to at least try…"

"I did. They were snotty. Decided the job wasn't for me."

"That was your fourth interview in six months, House. You need a job." It's his sixth, actually. But Wilson doesn't need to know.

"I hear Starbuck's is hiring."

"I can't keep lending you money." This is new. Wilson hasn't complained before- not overtly. It's in the subtleties- the little sighs, the mentioning of a new opening at whatever hospital or clinic. House doesn't want whatever hospital or clinic, he wants something interesting. The only problem is that all things interesting know about him and won't hire him unless he kisses the tips of their dirty toes.

"Free coffee all day. Satisfied customers. And have you had one of those espresso brownies?"

"I talked to Cuddy yesterday." This is the point where Wilson gets into his 'I'm saying something important' mode. Where he expects House to listen, pay attention, learn. And House most definitely doesn't want to hear anything that Cuddy has said. So he does the thing least expected. He gets up and moves towards his bedroom. "House… will you listen for one…."

"No."

Once in the comfort of his bedroom, he shucks the button up shirt and pushes his shoes off without untying the laces. The right one's a little hard to do this way now, but he manages it and stops to poke at his foot, swollen from the short flight, or maybe the walking. He sighs, pulls off his pants and tosses them to the floor. And once that happens, nothing holds him back from the comfort of the bed. He climbs under the covers and lets his head fall to the side. He hears his front door shut as Wilson leaves. The pills are good for one more thing: he sleeps without dreaming.


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (15/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy has been climbing the steps to this position since she was born. Always the fastest, the smartest, the toughest. The one that everyone trusts to get the job done. She's a doctor. She's a teacher. She's published. She earned an MBA while working as an attending. They said it was impossible. But she did it. And now there's this. She's accepted the position as the new Dean of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. This is her dream. And she's the youngest woman _ever _to do it.

Cuddy pulls the framed degree from the box and stares for a moment- gold and silver and glass encasing years of all-night study sessions, of saying the right things at the right time, and making a difference where it counted. It should fit right there- up above the couch on the far wall. She'll be able to see it every day and remember all the work she poured into her studies and her career to get here. The office, she laments, is just a tad on the dark side. There's a building not too far away and it will block the sun most of the day. She'll bring lamps, she thinks. Lots of lamps to give off soft orange light instead of the harsh fluorescents so prevalent throughout the hospital. And live plants. It will make potential donors feel at ease, comfortable. She'll make more money for this hospital, get all the right equipment, all the right doctors. All the right men and women for the job.

There's only one thing that's missing. Only one thing that she knows she can't put right.

She doesn't know what to tell Wilson and she doesn't want to think about this now, but the thoughts and the guilt come anyway. Cuddy sighs and puts her hands on her hips. She may be a Dean, but she's still human and she still feels responsible.

There's no way that she can get board approval for what Wilson wants her to do. No way will they do this. House's reputation spans the globe. His expertise and intellect, combined with one or two well-known patients, gained House infamy within the medical community. But like his expertise, his dodgy methods are also well known. He has always been reckless, controversial, and expensive. For that reason, his consult work has been much more desirable than his actual employment. No one wants to take that risk. It isn't that she's insensitive to his situation: she has become Wilson's inadvertent confidant and what she's heard hasn't always been good news.

Some of it has been good. House is still alive and kicking and still every bit of the ass that he was before she had his leg chopped up. He's walking better now. Stronger, almost healthy, except for the cane, except for the opiates. Ever since House left, the rumor mill has been in full production. House is dead; House is married with kids and living in London; House is working as the President's private doctor. Most of the doctors at Princeton are closer to the truth: they think it's a joke and say House is in seclusion, writing death threats to everyone that's ever annoyed him. Cuddy knows he's worked. There have been consults, a few articles, but not much else. His brain never stops working. There are no death threats, but there is seclusion.

Cuddy knows about House because she knows Wilson. House is not over Stacy, and he's more than angry about his leg. He refuses to let go of his resentment. He's probably depressed. But who knows? Who is she to say? She hasn't seen or talked to him in two years.

Cuddy does, however, talk to Stacy. Usually right around the holidays. Stacy will call, tell her how everything is right or wrong in the medical litigation practice, who she's been dating, and why all men are pigs. She'll sneak in a "How's Greg?" and Cuddy will unconsciously shrug and say "Fine," as far as she knows. And that'll be it. A moment of silence inevitably passes before Cuddy will say something about Wilson and that they should all get together somehow, at some point. Because that's what friends should do and they were friends once. Co-workers. But they're all so busy. And there's Greg to consider.

Greg. Greg. Greg House. Always Greg House. She shouldn't even try this. But she really does owe him one. Hell, maybe he's changed a little. At least he won't be able to run away from her authority- or anyone else's. On the flipside, that means he might get punched twice as many times. Patient advocacy was his strong suit. Patient relations, not so much. She'll give it a thought. See what happens in the next week.

It isn't until two weeks later, as she's firing a cardiologist, that she really thinks of it again. Bishop made a horrible error, overrode judgment of five other doctors, including Cuddy, and made them all look like insufferable idiots with quack degrees. It wasn't the first time, but it would be the last. The patient was dead from a reaction to the wrong treatment. An autopsy confirmed the initial rare disease cascaded into a host of related problems that confused everyone involved. No one could have figured it out in time. Except maybe House. She decides, sitting in her lamp-lit office with potted plants, . that she'll go to him. Talk to him the day after tomorrow. See for herself what she's done to him and if she wants him back.

Saturday morning is warmer than expected for October and she's a little too heated in the sweater she's wearing. Casual, but not too casual. This isn't a social meeting. This is a test. This is a way of testing the water before she takes the plunge.

Wilson has done all the arranging. He's guaranteed that House will be there. Cuddy holds a little trepidation for what that means exactly and wonders if her visit will come as a surprise to House. Wilson can be wily when he wants. She wouldn't put it past him to set the both of them up- though she hopes she has the upper hand in this case and that there are no surprises for her. Wilson's dedication to House the past few years has been beyond her comprehension. She knows they've been friends for a long time, but Wilson has been propping up his buddy for more than three years now. For the past year, he's done nothing but try to upsale damaged goods. She knows about the interviews House has gone through and she's even gotten a few reference calls. The only reason House is getting that far in the hiring process is because of what Wilson is doing for him- though Wilson only tells her how much House wants to work. House doesn't work, he obsesses. Her goal here is to determine if he's capable and if so, how to make her approach.

House's apartment is a place that she passes almost everyday on the way into work. She never realized it before. Cuddy looks up at the gray stone building. It fits, she thinks. Gray and stony. It's like something out of 1800's London. If only it were raining and she was dressed in a Victorian era corset with lace shrouding her face. It would be black, she thinks. She'd knock so politely with gloved hands and he'd answer the door in a suit and with a pipe hanging from his lip. It isn't' raining. Hasn't rained for a week. House won't be in a suit because he never is and it's too hot for her to wear gloves. She's already burning up in the sweater.

The door is green. A gold 'B' stuck in the center, right above her head and the knocker. She looks for a bell, but there isn't one. She starts to wonder exactly how old this building might be. Moreover, why is it suddenly interesting to her because history and architecture are not her in her reportoire of useless knowledge. Not even in moderation. If she has a hobby, it's jogging. If she has an interest, it's music. But not Princeton architecture. So she knocks.

House takes another sip from his beer and turns another page. He's been studying this for a while now, researching. Last month, he found that his limited health insurance wouldn't cover it so he'd gone on a fishing expedition for experimental clinics needing patient volunteers and found one. There's always someone testing the effectiveness of nerve blocks on pain patients. He'll start making the calls on Monday.

Just as he's getting to his feet to get another beer, there's a knock on the door. He's already headed towards the kitchen so he yells back at it, knowing that it's Wilson. He's due any minute. It's Michigan v. Penn State and Wilson had better have more beer with him.

"Open it yourself. I'm not coming!"

He goes for the fridge, grabbing his second beer of the day and popping the cap between the counter's edge and his cane. As the handle comes down, the metal cap flips off onto the counter and bounces back to the floor. By the time he looks for it, it's disappeared- probably underneath the edge of the cabinet.

"I'm almost out of beer. About time you…" He turns and looks into the face of Lisa Cuddy. She looks good- more conservative than he remembers though. No v-neck today and she's wearing pants. She never wears pants. He frowns, leans against the counter, and takes a sip of his beer. He swallows his initial surprise and heads towards anger instead. "What are you doing here?"

"I was invited."

"Not by me."

"You said to open the door."

"Because it was supposed to be Wilson. He owes me beer. And it's almost game time."

House straightens, takes another sip from the bottle, and starts to move towards the living room. This is not the reception Cuddy expected. House walks with the cane a lot faster than she remembers and he looks older now, gray at the temples and lines around his eyes. She wonders if she's responsible for part of that. If maybe if she hadn't been his doctor that one time, he'd still look young. And he'd still be a doctor.

Cuddy follows him back to the living room and watches as he reclines on the couch, lifting his right leg to rest on the coffee table before following it with the left. She clinches her left hand in her right and stands, watching, and suddenly unsure of what to say, so she starts off with what the business world calls "rapport building" (and in the social world "small talk" or "chit chat") as he's flipping channels. "So how have you been?"

His eyes remain on the television as he responds. "No work and all play, all the time. Leg doesn't much like it though. Likes to sit on the couch instead. Something about nerve damage." He shakes his head, shrugs.

"Have you been doing any PT?" She sits on the couch, knees pressed together and hands in her lap, leaning towards him, though he's not watching her.

"Every time I call the escort service. Did you know that…"

She cuts him off. She doesn't want to know what he'll say next and she gets the feeling that he's trying to make her leave. But she's tougher than that. She's the Dean now. She could be his boss. (And she's planned for it.) "House, you know with an injury like this you should be…"

"I should be pain free. That's what I should be." She sees his eyes suddenly dart towards her and then back again, angry. Wilson is right. He hasn't gotten over this. Whether or not he will even take a job underneath her is debatable. He could see it as a move inspired by pity. And maybe it is. But if he sees it that way, he won't take it. She has to find a way to turn this around. Make it look like he's legitimately applying for a job and give him a reason to be cocky about getting it. It won't be easy. And it won't be politically correct. But that's business.

"I'm sorry about your leg, House. Really." The tone in her voice seems to soothe his demeanor a bit and his head tilts before he takes another long swig of the beer. Cuddy eyes the label- it's Yuengling. She knows it's cheaper than what he normally drinks. She also knows that House doesn't drink cheap beer- or rather, he didn't before. Wilson didn't mention financial concerns, but she can't help but wonder about it. He isn't working. He didn't sue.

The television is showing the sportscasters at the game now, smiling in their booth and talking about the match-up. "I thought you hated football…"

"Not when I'm going to get Wilson's money."

"You bet on Michigan?"

"I had to."

"Loyal alumni- never let the old alma mater down, right?"

"Nope. Wilson took Penn. And besides… no one's beating Michigan this year. Not with Curtis up front and Matthews throwing. Defensive line is nothing to brag about, but they get the job done."

"And if Penn State wins, how much are you going to be out?"

House shrugs. "Doesn't matter. Wilson will give me his money anyway."

"Are you short?"

"Nope. I'm over six foot."

Cuddy sighs before she makes the next attempt at conversation. "I've heard you've been applying for jobs."

"I get bored."

"I might have some positions you'd be interested in." She stays focused on him, watching his reactions. He stays focused on the television.

"Probably not."

"I'm the Dean now, you know…"

"Come here to gloat about it?"

"No." She fumbles for a moment and then recovers. "Just thought you'd like to know."

"I don't." But the way he shifts a little in his seat tells her something. His eyes squint a bit and he takes a sip of his beer. After he swallows, his lips stay on the rim of the bottle, blowing on it so that it whistles in a low pitch. "Why'd you come here anyway? Did Wilson send you?"

This part is planned. Easy enough. "Yes. He had to go in- one of his patients. He's not coming."

"He couldn't call me?"

"He had to call me. And he sounded winded. So I'm guessing he was busy."

"And _you_ couldn't call instead of gracing me with your visit?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

"You're lying."

"Fine. I'm lying. I really came over here to make a quick buck."

The comment garners a glance and it isn't at her eyes. She holds in her instinct to frown at him, and instead pushes her shoulders back in a move that at once enhances and states her authority. They are one in the same.

"You said Wilson's at work?" His eyebrows raise suggestively.

"In your dreams." The thought crosses her mind at this point that she should stay. She should stay, cheer on her alma mater, throw in some cash against Wilson. It would be one more way to remind House that they had something in common. But it's too much. It's unnatural and she hasn't watched a football game since last Thanksgiving. Besides, she's gotten enough information for now and the beginnings of an idea. The execution of her plan will take a few weeks and she might as well start now. She pushes up off her knees and stands, walking behind his chair. She lays a hand on his shoulder and feels the flinch. This, too, is expected. "Enjoy your game."


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (16/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis (aka joepikejunior)

* * *

These steps he's made thousands of times. Through the front doors, into reception, past the clinic, and into the office of the Dean's office. House has never been in here with Cuddy and the office is changed. It used to be blocky, masculine, and dark when Carlisle was there. Carlisle was constantly missing in action. No one ever knew where he was, what he was doing. And no one ever needed his approval. But now Lisa Cuddy is behind the desk, writing something while looking at her computer screen. A couch and two comfortable chairs are to the right of the desk. A few plants, obviously young and new, sit on the table behind Cuddy.

"Did you forget to knock?" Cuddy asks without looking at him.

"Hands were full." He holds up the cane.

"If you're trying to make a good impression, this is not the way to do it." House blows air up towards the ceiling. He hadn't been trying to make any kind of impression. She'd been the one to invite him here. Of course, he hadn't been forced to submit his resume for the position. He wasn't qualified for it anyway. He'd never get the approval from the board- not with his history- to be the head of any major department. Especially not infectious disease. But he'd e-mailed his resume to Cuddy anyway.

"Why am I here?"

"Interview, remember?"

"So interview me."

"You're late. I'm busy. You can wait five minutes."

House sighs and folds himself into one of the chairs facing her desk. There is stone- carved elephant on the desk and he picks it up, fingering the rough edges where chisel met rock. The elephant is small enough to fit in his hand with his fingers closed around it and he does so, relishing the cool of the stone and the harshness of the edges. Cuddy taps her pen on the desk in front of him and holds out her hand. "Put it down."

"Idol worship is forbidden by your holy books."

"My nephew got that for me in Thailand. So put it back."

He does and flops his hands back down to his lap, rubbing his thigh a bit before speaking again. "You have family? I always assumed Satan only had one spawn…"

"He had three."

Five minutes is a long time to sit in silence as Cuddy keeps her head buried in whatever she's doing. House fidgets, shifts, and eventually brings out his bottle of Vicodin and pops one. Cuddy gives him a glance and then puts down her pen, folding her hands in front of her.

"How much are you on now?"

"Eighty milligrams a day. Is that relevant?"

"Might be. I can't employ a drug addict."

His mouth turns down into a frown. None of his other potential employers dared to harp on that issue. The only person who has bugged him about the Vicodin is Wilson. House looks up into the left corner of the room where cobwebs should be. There aren't any. He can't avoid an answer so he gives the one he knows best: "I'm in pain."

"I'm not doubting that. But I need to know that neither the pills nor the pain will interfere with your ability to do your job with reasonable accommodation."

The reasonable accommodation speech is always fun, he muses, and he grins a little. "I can sign all your little forms and get my doctor to witness them, as long as you give me a nice parking space."

"I can assure you that won't be a problem. Let's talk about the position."

The position, he muses later, isn't glorious, lucrative, or even interesting. Heading up a department never is. You do all of the nasty personnel work and almost none of the hands on cool stuff. And there's absolutely no way that the board will approve this. Cuddy had explained that since it was a department head position, she'd be the only one interviewing him. She'd hand her recommendation to the board, along with his c.v., and let them decide. There's absolutely no way, he tells Wilson later, as he's sitting on the couch in his office. The blinds are drawn, blocking out midday rays and House is sitting with his feet planted and the cane bouncing between them. "No way the board will approve it." Wilson just shrugs with his arms crossed and says: "You never know…"

A week passes and it's Thursday again. It's a crappy day that just can't seem to get any better. His leg wakes him at 3am. Two bill collectors call before noon. Wilson's been at work nonstop for the past two days. And his mom wants to visit him, which means his dad will come along too. Whenever his dad sees him now, it's always to give him some kind of story about men who lost legs and arms and lives in Vietnam and their "normal" lives now. Must be why most of them are alcoholics, House thinks. Normal Vietnam vets and their normal lives.

For the third time that hour, House swipes the sweat from his brow and gets back on his feet to pace the room. He's found this helps. The walking keeps him from thinking about it. While he's walking, there is only one foot ahead of the other instead of the relentless pursuit of things gone wrong.

When there's a knock on the door, he happens to be by it, so he swings it open on instinct, surprised to see Lisa Cuddy standing there. He grimaces a little and leans on the door. "What do you want?"

"I came by to talk. If you're busy…"

"Not busy. Come here to tell me I didn't get the job?"

"You didn't get the job we discussed. Do you have a minute?"

It's either stand at the door, shut it in her face, or let her into the apartment. If he lets her in, he can sit while he listens to whatever she has to say. He moves to the side and lets her through the door. . As soon as she's through, she moves further into the room and stands by his chair. He pauses for a moment, takes in her immaculate appearance and the low cut top, and tries not to wince as he moves towards the couch. But when he sits, he can't help but sigh in relief.

"The board has decided to start a new department and they want you for that instead."

"I thought you said I didn't get the job."

"Not the head of Infectious Disease. They want a Diagnostic Department. When we get new patients, we need someone with a diverse background to give a thorough and accurate diagnosis so we know how to treat them. The patients coming in would be critical, in desperate and immediate need for diagnosis and treatment."

"Two specialties doesn't make me 'diverse.' " He is diverse. He's capable. But Cuddy is full of crap.

"Yes they do. You'd have fellows."

"You expect me to teach them?"

"I expect them to learn from you." She pauses. "What do you think?"

He shrugs, grabs the glass of water from the table and takes a sip. It allows him to process the thought for a moment longer while he formulates a response. "I don't know if…"

She suddenly stands, moves to be closer to him, sits amazingly near him on the couch and thoughts of a response are gone. He can smell her perfume. It's nice, he thinks. Really nice. She touches his right thigh at the incision. He tries, unsuccessfully, to edge away from her.

"Does it hurt?"

He's off guard. This is… unexpected. "A little." He can see down her shirt. Feel the heat rising off of her. Her chest heaves and he feels his breaths matching hers as she kneads his leg a little and then moves her hand further upwards to the top of the scar. He can't help but wonder about the last time she got laid. It has to have been a while. And it's been a while for him too because he's forgetting that this is Cuddy. The last time with Stacy… it's been years. House wishes it was her. But he can't see her face now anyway- only her lips, her breasts, her thighs at the edge of her skirt. She wants him. He takes the hint.

It's almost midnight when Cuddy climbs out of Greg House's bed and puts her clothes back on. It wasn't bad, she tells herself. And now he'll take the job and she'll give him less than he really deserves. All in all, he hasn't asked for much. Not nearly as much as anyone else coming into a department head position. An office with a balcony, a conference room, four subordinates, a comfortable chair, tenure.

She didn't tell him about the real deal with the board. His primary function isn't going to be diagnostics. His team will consist of three fellows at the maximum. His pay practically entry level, with a side dish of funds set aside for legal issues. The cases will be sporadic. The rest of the time will be spent patching scrapes and handing out lozenges for sore throats. But she's getting a good doctor with a reputation. His ability to solve the unsolvable will bring them patients and donors. This is politics, she thinks. It's not necessarily how smart you are, but what you're willing to do to be successful.

"Where are you going?" He slurs from where his face is pressed to the pillow. He's satisfied, exhausted.

"I have to work tomorrow. Need my rest." Cuddy sits on the bed to put her shoes on and he pats the bed next to him, urging her to lie down.

"Rest here."

"You need your rest too. I expect you in my office at noon. I'll have the paperwork ready."


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (17/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis (aka joepikejunior). As some of you know, this whole semi new "work" thing has significantly decreased the ability of muse-influence. What has resulted is a delay- of everything. More in the works on this- but it could be a while.

* * *

Cuddy is prancing down the hospital's stairs in stilettos and House is trying his damnedest to get to the elevator before she catches him. Stacy always wore boots, no-nonsense, practical. He loved Stacy in her lawyer suit- conservative, yet form fitting in the right places. There was something sexy about the power she portrayed. But the stilettos, high heels, and the plunging necklines that Cuddy prefers are difficult, if not impossible, to ignore on a purely basic, heterosexual manner- he is at once repulsed and turned on. There is something incredibly wrong about being turned on by his boss's revealing clothing. But she's put strict limitations on their relationship: He goes to work, she goes to work, they may pass each other in the hallway and if he screws up, she'll lecture him in her office. It's been like this for three weeks. He's sat across from her desk three times and said almost nothing as she's badgered him.

He doesn't like her. He won't ever like her. She's a good lay, but she's proven herself a succubus and a liar. Two days into his renewed position at Princeton, she chased him to the clinic and dropped a handfull of files into his arms.He put the files in the trash and walked out when she wasn't looking. That night, he'd gone to her place and she'd shut the door in his face and told him she'd see him at work.

He would not be used or taken for granted and for those reasons, he's purchased a pocket sized television and a Gameboy, which he packs into his backpack every day as a statement of his rebellion. He does, however, look at resumes. They keep landing on his desk somehow and they fill time in between breakfast and Judge Judy. House gets a good laugh out of them every once in a while. He accepted this position so he could do something interesting and so far, all he's been requested to do is boring administrative crap.

"Dr. House, you can't run away from me…"

She's caught him despite his attempts to get away. The grin on her face is almost condescending and she's got her arms crossed beneath her breasts. She's an angry school teacher who's caught an errant kid on the way to smoke in the boy's room. House is still twenty feet from the elevator doors and they're shutting anyway. No one holds the door for him so he squares up to Cuddy.

"Oh yeah. Because I forgot about that…." He holds the cane to her face and continues towards the elevator. "What do you want?"

"You owe me clinic hours. It's in your contract."

"No it's not."

"Just because it was in fine print doesn't mean you get out of it. You should've paid attention." Her lips turn into a grin and he's overcome with the urge to hit her. He sighs, turns his eyes upwards and to the right, re-plants the cane beside him.

"You distracted me."

"You're forty-something years old. Grow up. And do your job. That includes your hours in the clinic." She's standing in his way to the elevator and when the doors open, he tries to step around but she's right there with him. Her arms cross and she steps forwards, looking up at him. "Now."

"You're trying to physically push me there?"

"No. But if you don't go now, I'll have your office moved next door to mine."

"You can't do that."

"I'm the Dean. I'm your boss. I might actually need that conference room for something other than sitting empty for employees you haven't hired."

He lifts his chin in defiance, but he can't think of another reason not to go. He likes his conference room- even if it is almost empty. "Jump in a pond before you jump in the ocean, House. Think of it as warming up to the big game."

He turns, silent, and she follows him all the way through the doors of Exam Room 1 where a pimpled teenage boy sits pensive and wide-eyed. House is standing stock still with a chart in hand when she shuts the door and leaves the room. He only imagines the satisfied smirk on her face as he gives the chart a half-glance and puts it down.

"Why are you here?"

"Sore throat. Really tired. Think maybe it's mono. My girlfriend has it."

"What girlfriend?" The kid's hands twitch in his lap and his eyes move up to the left as his mouth opens and closes twice before settling on his next phrase. House watches the kid, his red freckled face, his red hair, the way he's holding his hands over his lap. Cuddy's blouse is awfully low cut today.

"She's in class with me."

"If you need a doctor's note, just say the word. Tell the girlfriend story to your teacher- not to me." House scribbles in the chart. "I save you from another unexcused absence, you save me from useless procedures. Deal?"

The kid nods. House hands him the note.

Two stuffy noses, one STD, and one lumbar strain later, House is face to face with someone he doesn't want to see. Clinic duty is boring, mundane. This turns the tables- but not in any way he could have anticipated. Not on his first day.

"I got laid off- no insurance. So…." The woman on the table has her legs crossed at the ankles, an icepack held to her wrist. "I didn't know you were working again…"

"I didn't know you weren't," he retorts, pursing his lips and dragging a stool by the counter. Karen LaVie cautiously looks at him, blows out a breath. Karen has been Stacy's best friend for as long as House has known. Something about college sororities. House suddenly can't bear the fact that he dated a sorority girl. He used to be proud of it. He'd once dug through all Stacy's old college photos and discovered a plethora of blackmail-worthy shots: wet-t-shirt contests, embarrasing hazing rituals, all the insane thing that hormonal and free teenagers do when they're away from home for the first time. Regardless, Stacy's best friend swings her legs and winces. House opens the chart for a half second and then shuts it. It's obvious why Karen is in the clinic. He doesn't need a chart to let him know where to look for the problem.

He sighs, digs in his pocket for a moment, and brings out two pills, throwing them to the back of his throat.

"What did you do?"

"Trying to clean the gutters. Frank is out of town so…"

"Why aren't you on Frank's insurance?"

Karen's head tilts and she blows out a puff of air. House takes her wrist in hand and before she can give a reason that she's uninsured, she's wincing as House is poking her wrist and moving her fingers.

"You aren't going to ask me?" Her voice cuts through the process of diagnostic orthopedics. He isn't an expert in this field. He has to focus. Hand bone connected to the arm bone. Press there. "Ouch!"

"Does it hurt there?"

"Of course it hurts. I fell on it. Stacy's doing fine, you know. She's absolutely loving it up there. She's thinking of buying a house…"

"Great." He never looks at her, instead focusing on rotating, manipulating, gauging response. Just another patient, on another day. There is nothing abnormal in treating someone you sort of know.

"She's doing much better without you around. You were always…"

House pushes back on the stool and begins to jot notes in the chart as he's speaking. "You need an x-ray. I'll make sure you get to the bottom of the list. Should only be…. Four hours or so… " He stands and doesn't look at her, but he can feel her stares as he completes the chart and shoves it back into the pocket on the outside of the door. Done. Over with.

He breathes out a puff of air and moves to the next room, absently grabbing the file from the door and flipping through it with a half glance at the patient, a guy in his twenties holding a bloody tissue to his nose. The guy frowns around the tissue, glances down at House's cane and says "This one's taken. Find your own exam room." So House puts the folder back in the door and shuts it. He thinks of going to one more, but a look at the waiting room changes his mind and his leg can feel the extra steps he's taken between all those clinic room doors. He's more than physically tired.

No more. He has to hire a team, get some interesting cases. Cuddy's clinic plan is not going to work out.


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (18/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my beta, Armchair Elvis (aka joepikejunior). Sorry this writing thing has taken a backseat to RL... actually it's not even RL. It's just work and boredom and blahness. I'd appreciate reviews. They make me happy.

* * *

Wilson watches from his position on a hallway bench as the latest of House's potential fellows emerges from the stairway, hitching a breath before before turning to the right. There's no way it could be anyone else. The guy is carrying a briefcase, he's flushed, young, over-eager. House is going to hate him. Wilson takes a sip of his sugar-laden espresso and watches as the applicant continues moving in the wrong direction. The guy lopes down the hall like the human version of a giraffe, but with white skin and red hair. Probably burns under the sun in five minutes and is pasted with freckles on every inch of his body. He's a skin cancer waiting to happen. The funny thing is that this applicant actually reminds Wilson of Stacy's younger brother. Wilson met him once when there was a patient and an argument and House just couldn't make it. Wilson had picked him up from the airport instead. However, Stacy loved her brother and there used to be photos all over the apartment. He remembers House making some crack about the mailman's kid and Stacy frowning and telling them that her mom had red hair before she went gray.

This red headed applicant starts heading towards the nurse's station and Wilson stands and starts the move to intercept him. If he can get to this guy first, then he can prepare him, make him ease back on the eager beaver façade and possibly get House a new employee. God knows he needs a few.

It isn't that House can't work by himself. It isn't that House is lonely or incapable. It's his stubborn reluctance to trust and his lone wolf attitude towards work that makes Wilson take this action. House claims he doesn't need help with anything, but he's the first to interrupt Wilson just to bounce an idea off of him. It comes in the form of a pebble against a window, an off topic and embarrasing question, a simple annoyance that gets House one step closer to what he really wants and needs: answers. Even though he's got his job back, the answers House needs now aren't necessarily about the medicine, but about all the things that went wrong. What does he do now that he can't run, can't stand in on surgery for three hours, that Stacy is gone, that his life is compromised by a bum leg? These questions come in the subtext of thirty minute rants in Wilson's office while they drink espresso or eat lunch. Wilson does what he can- he listens, agrees, makes absurd suggestions, and gets House a yo-yo. But no one can give House any definite answers, and working (with people) might help to get them off of his mind. The more people House has surrounding him, the less time he'll have to think about all the things that really matter to him, affect him. House needs this job and he needs employees and he needs a friend. Then there will be less Wilson will have to worry about.

He's never stopped worrying. No matter how hard Wilson tries to forget, he's always got this nagging feeling that the next miniscule anomoly in House's life will be the sign that he missed. The one time he ignores House or is too busy to be there, will be the time that really matters. Whether it's the limp that's a little worse one day, or the extra bottle of bourbon Wilson saw on the shelf, or the time just last week when House refused to go get a dinner after work. Dinner wasn't daily routine, but it was common. Refusal, on the other hand, wasn't. If dinner was offered, House went. But not last Thursday. House had made some crack that maybe Wilson should take Cuddy and her insatiable appetite instead and stalked out the doors to his car while Wilson's face contorted into confusion. It didn't mean anything, Wilson thinks. It meant House was too tired or in too much pain or maybe he just had other plans. It meant nothing at all. That's what Wilson tries to tell himself every day. Turns out that dinner (this time) really didn't matter too much. They went to dinner on Friday night instead. For all of his worry and over-analysis of House's mental state, nothing serious has happened in over two years. House is depressed, but it's the cool, collected, leisurely melancholy instead of the up in arms, defensive, suicidal type. Wilson should've stopped worrying by now. But he hasn't.

Wilson takes a step in front of the lanky red head before he gets a step closer to House's office. "Hi, um- you're here for Dr. House right?" Wilson extends his hand, making the kid shift his briefcase to his left hand and return the gesture. "I'm Dr. Wilson."

"Steve Malloy."

Wilson nods his head and lets go of Malloy's hand. He doesn't have much time. "Listen," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "You have to know that this isn't going to be what you think. If you want this job, you have to go in there and act like you've got better things to do. He's going to try to push you out of that room before you even sit down. He's going to belittle every insecurity or weakness that you have."

Malloy frowns, shifts his briefcase back to his other hand and sighs. Wilson can't help but think of Stacy now. He'd seen her face some intimidating lawyers in his time and Malloy reminds him of this. The briefcase, the shifting, deflection, protection. The physical movement releases an emotional strain. Or maybe it's just nerves. "Why are you telling me this?"

"This is an opportunity of a lifetime. He's a good doctor. And he needs good doctors to work for him. If you're a good doctor, then I don't want you to get the boot for something personal. He's interviewed ten people and nine of them left in the first five minutes." The tenth was legitimately unqualified.

"So if I can make it past the first five…" Malloy nods, smiles with undersized teeth. "He's got nothing on my old basketball coach."

Wilson gives the kid a head start and enters the office just moments after he overhears House asking Malloy if he's into masochism. Wilson goes into the room as if nothing is new or changed and he allows House his moment of questioning bewilderment.

"What are you doing here?"

"Consult," Wilson returns, comfortably pulling a chair up beside Malloy.

"It would be rude…"

"Hiring consult." Wilson crosses his legs, takes a pen from his pocket and turns to the first page on his notepad. House scowls, but doesn't say anything more and continues his badgering. It turns out that House does have something on Malloy's old basketball coach. Like the fact that Malloy was the slowest guy on the team and couldn't shoot for shit. But his height made him just okay. Wilson intervenes after three minutes with the simplest of questions: "So what makes you right for this job?"

In less than thirty minutes, Wilson and House have more information than necessary to make a hiring decision, much of it thanks to Wilson's carefully prying way of getting into Malloy's head. Wilson knows that House could care less that the guy is a practicing Catholic and has a kid and a wife and an apartment on Broad. What matters is that the guy graduated first in his class from Northwestern. And he did his residency under someone House doesn't hate. What matters even more is that after Wilson stands and shakes Malloy's hand, thus excusing him, he turns and says "You've gotta hire him, House. You've got no choice." So House does it. If House compares Steve Malloy to Stacy's brother, he doesn't make a mention of it. Maybe he's forgotten. Maybe he's past it. Probably not.

Wilson and House interview three more candidates over the next week and Wilson eventually forces House (two weeks later) into hiring Vance Ewes just to keep Malloy company in the conference room. Ewes wasn't the best in his class and he's inexperienced. However, he's calm, intelligent, and Wilson tells House that Ewes' old boss (someone with whom Wilson went to school) hasn't seen a better instinct in five years. House signs off on the paperwork and the next day, Wilson watches his eyes widen as Cuddy congratulates him on his new employees.

Two weeks pass, House has fellows, but Wilson is still paying for coffee and lunch. Sometimes dinner. He wishes someone else would do it. "So now you've got these fellows…" Wilson takes a bite of his hamburger and picks up a French fry, coating it in ketchup , and pointing it at House, who is pushing the remains of his own pile of fries around his plate like he's playing table football. "Have you found a case yet?" Two weeks and Wilson has yet to see this team in any real action.

House continues pushing his fries around, then picks one up, examines it, sinks his teeth into the middle of it. "Nope. They've got clinic hours to catch up on."

"Your clinic hours," Wilson asserts.

"We're a team, Dr. Wilson. We work together."

"They're supposed to learn from you. Not be your lackeys."

House sighs and takes another fry, this time from Wilson's plate. "Then I guess I shouldn't have them doing my taxes either." Wilson contains the surprise garnered by that statement and hopes that House is just kidding around.

"You need to make them feel at ease, House, or they'll never trust you."

"Shouldn't trust me anyway. I'm their boss."

"They need to trust your judgment. And you need to be able to trust theirs. Invite them for a beer. Have unch with them." Wilson pauses and sits back in his chair a bit, crosses his arms. "Or you could just start by actually working with them."

"Ewes is about as shiny and interesting as a penny from 1978. And Malloy reminds me of someone I didn't like." House gets a far off look in his eye like he's peering through a microscope in the air of the room. Wilson can't tell if it's honest or not, but there's an automatic lump in his throat as House pauses. Then his eyes flick down and a hand reaches out again, grabbing the last fry from Wilson's plate and two off his own. "Anyway," he continues, chewing, "Not the camaraderie that's important. As long as they're diagnosing illnesses, we won't have a problem."

"Right," Wilson responds, just a little relieved House drops the subject of Malloy's resemblance. However, he's thinking that he should've let House hire who he wanted because it's been two weeks and things are pretty much the same. Wilson thought this was going to be it: House would come back to work, hire some fellows, start practicing medicine again, and in the process, he'd find someone or something in which to be interested. It might even take the burden off of Wilson. There was always something or someone before, wasn't there? It's been so long, that maybe Wilson has deluded himself. He could've sworn that House used to at least have a few acquaintances at work and if he wasn't actually working, then he was at least pretending. But Wilson's caught him asleep in his office more than just a few times. The only difference between House's unemployment period and now is that he gets a paycheck for doing absolutely nothing.

"Did you hear that thing about Murkowski's wife?"

Wilson shakes himself out of his reverie and shrugs. "No. What happened?"

House looks around, leans forward and shouts. "Murkowski's wife is banging his assistant!"

Heads immediately turn and there is the sound of someone choking. It's Murkowski, sitting two tables over with his young assistant, Josh Calloway, who's got his mouth hanging wide open. Wilson grimaces. Then again, some things have gotten much better. When he looks up at House, there's something there that reminds him of times long past. If it wasn't so inappropriate, he'd be smiling too.


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Lead Me Upstairs (19/?)

Author: nomad1328

Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.

Thanks go to my beta, Armchair Elvis (aka joepikejunior). Reviews make me happy!

* * *

The stairs leading up to the restaurant are steep, slick rock, wet from the evening's rain. She climbs them in her heels (leftover from the day's work in Trenton) and curses herself for not bringing something more practical for this. It's not a date. It's not business.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, she gives an empty smile to the doorman and leaves her coat with the valet. The interior of the restaurant, a place she hasn't seen in five years (has it been that long?), hasn't changed. It's still all dark mahogany and dim yellow light. spaced just far enough apart, are scattered throughout the interior. Not too many, not too few, but there is a cadre of people waiting in the lounge sipping pale beers and glasses of red wine. It's a popular place. The music is something classical, quiet and soothing. "The reservation is under Wilson," she says to the Maitre'D. "Is he here yet?"

The Maitre'D looks down, runs his pencil down the list and smiles. "He's just arrived. Right this way."

Stacy follows, hands clasped tight on her briefcase, the one that doubles as a purse on days like today. She unconsciously rubs the set of rings on her left finger with her thumb and purses her lips together, gaining her nerve. This should be interesting. But she needs this. She thinks Mark needs this.

Wilson looks just like she remembers. It hasn't been that long, after all. And the aging process- well, he's always had those boyish looks. When he stands and smiles, however, she can see the hint of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. And he's put on just a little weight that she can see beyond the suit and tie, but it makes him more of a man somehow.

He holds his arms out and she falls into them as friends do after a long time apart. She holds him tight, more thankful for his presence than he can comprehend. He's a comforting presence in a time of desperation. "James," she murmurs, "It's so good to see you again."

He smiles back at her, but there's just a bit of something else there too. Regret maybe. Or guilt. All things considered, it's not surprising. She wonders if he told Greg about this.

They sit and there's a moment of uncertainty, but she's always been good about filling in the silence so she says "How's Julie?" But then she regrets it because he's got this laughing kind of wince on his face that says it's not going all that well.

"She's okay," he responds, grabbing the wine menu. "I just don't know how we are."

"How long has it been now?"

"Four years. Going for a record."

"What is it this time?" She wishes she had already ordered wine, but makes do by sliding the silver fork against the smoothe texture of the tablecloth. Wilson, evidently, hasn't changed at all. She'd always thought Wilson was the nice guy. But Greg was always telling her all of Wilson's little secrets- the way he fell into relationships, went out of his way to please every woman he could, and his trysts with the nurses. At first she'd found it hard to believe. Then she'd started paying attention. He's a womanizer of the worst sort. The sort that's so humble, so unassuming, that even he doesn't know what he's doing. It doesn't stop her from poking fun at him.

"I don't know. She's just… she's distant. I'm not there enough. I don't know." He looks up at her for a moment and she feels just a bit sorry for him because he really doesn't get it at all. But Stacy knows him too well. This is James Wilson. This is how it is with him and women. He's quick to commit. And they're quick to give in. He builds them up and eventually one of them breaks down. They never last as long as they promise. Stacy has her left hand around her glass and she catches James looking at it. "So you're…" he motions at her hand.

"Three years."

"Oh boy…" he mutters. Stacy feels a lump in her throat, but it's not because of Greg. It's not that. She's happy with Mark. He's a good man, a good husband. She would've married Greg if he'd ever asked, but he didn't do those kinds of things. It turned out that the next guy with whom she had a serious relationship did.

A change of subject will cure the uneasiness between them. "So… how's work?"

"Good... good… I made department head. So, that's… interesting. Lot of work, you know. House seems to make sure I can't keep up with it…."

"He's working again?"

"Yeah. Cuddy hired him back- gave him his own department."

"He has employees?" It's shocking really, that this has happened. Even more shocking that Cuddy hadn't mentioned it when she'd talked to her last just a few months ago. The last she'd heard, House had been consulting on minor cases here and there, publishing even, but his practice, for all intents and purposes, was dead. She'd imagined him holed up in his apartment, leaned over heaps of research material with the phone at his side, trying to cure some obscure disease just by power of his own mind. He was always a thinker- not a leader. He always hated dealing with other people, other doctors. Maybe he's changed.

"Barely." Or maybe not. She used to be able to tell these things. But it's been a long time.

A sandy-haired waitress comes by and Wilson formally announces that they'll have a bottle of the Merlot. He's always been good at remembering what people like. Greg always forgot. He ordered her Riesling when she liked Merlot. He ordered the chicken when she loved the steak. It wasn't that he was absent-minded. It was just that he didn't care much about those things. Wilson, it seems, doesn't even have to think twice about it. He's hardwired to please.

After the waitress leaves, they continue. Stacy wants to ask more about Greg. Every brain cell she has is craving it, but she temporarily suppresses it, bites her lip. This isn't what they're here for. And it wouldn't be appropriate. She's married and this thing with Greg was over five years ago. She has to question her motives here, but can't help temptation. The question slips her tongue in a moment of weakness.

"How is he?"

Wilson nods. "Better. Really working now. I think his new fellows are going to work out." As an afterthought: "Unlike the others…"

"How many employees has he scared away?"

"Five so far. He fired the first two after three months. Then he had two more for a while but they ended up walking off the job after about five months. The next lasted a day. Chase, Cameron, and Foreman have been around nine or ten months now. He actually… works… with them now. It's pretty amazing, actually. I think hell might have frozen over…which is interesting because he didn't actually interview them at all…"

She laughs a little because it's funny and amazing. Stacy's happy for him, but she knows better than anyone that just because things seem okay, doesn't mean that they are. Her relationship with Greg drilled this into her mind more than once. She remembers all too well his obsessive tendencies. The way he'd ignore her for days when he got a case he couldn't get his mind around; the way they fought and he'd go dig something up at work, just to take his mind off of it; how at the end of it all, he'd come home, exhausted and skip work while they made up for the time they missed together. It was all or nothing for Greg. If one area of his life was great, the others suffered. He was poor at multitasking. "Is he seeing anyone?" Wilson sighs and looks down, fiddling with the wrapped set of silverware on the table. She can tell he's uncomfortable, but he's been this way since they've been here. Maybe it is guilt. "Did you tell him you were coming to see me? Because if you didn't, it means he doesn't have anyone else to annoy."

"No. I… told him. Eventually. He sort of… found out."

"Is he okay with it?"

"I don't think so," Wilson responds. "He says he is… says 'hi' actually…"

The waitress comes back and Wilson sips the wine, nods, and they both watch as she pours into their respective glasses. After she leaves, Wilson sips from his glass and ever so calmly sighs: "He's addicted to the pills."

"For his leg?"

He nods wordlessly and takes his upper lip into his mouth, sucking on the remnants of the wine. "I don't know what to do."

Neither does she. She's not an expert. Not a doctor. She knows that opiates are risky things, bad things. . She's seen "Intervention" and the people who destroy their lives and families with drugs. She can see how the show would play out with him on it. But recants when she realizes he would figure it out far in advance. Besides, last she knew, his pain was uncontrolled by anything else. Maybe he needs the pills. "Have you talked to him?"

"He says he doesn't want to stop. And he makes a point- he functions. The pills help. Sort of."

But then, James always dramatizes everything. Stacy shrugs. Greg's working and if he's got that then he's fine for now. If he's got a problem with the pills, then she shouldn't care. Besides, he's so stubborn that he won't change even if he needs to. It's her fault. But she fights with that old story every day.

The waiter comes back and they order the food. Wilson has the steak. She has the crab. And more wine. They eat and they talk about little things. About how she and Mark have bought a house. About how James and Julie have a condo on the East side. About House- who hasn't gone anywhere. And somewhere between a piece of zucchini and a shrimp, she says something like "I think Mark's sick and I want Greg to take a look at him."

Wilson stops chewing (so he doesn't choke) and puts down his knife and fork. He looks like he's having trouble swallowing, but Stacy continues with her own meal as if nothing is out of place.

"I'm… You're… Are you serious?" he stutters, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin.

"I've known Mark for four years. And in the last few months- he's changed."

His lip turns down and his eyes squint in disbelief. "Welcome to happily ever after…" Wilson picks up his fork again, but she has to stay persistent. No one listens to her.

"He says his stomach hurts. He won't go anywhere with me at all. We haven't been out to dinner in 3 months. He's been to the doctor and they say it's stress…. But that's not it. I know better. This is not just stress. Something's wrong and no one can tell us what it is."

"You do realize what you're asking?" Wilson places his hand next to his plate, and begins tapping his fingers, nervous.

"I know it's crazy. But Greg… Who would you want? I mean, if it was you? Who would you trust?"

"How many doctors have you seen?"

"Four."

"And they've…"

"Said it was a mid-life crisis and high blood pressure."

"And you think House can tell you something else?"

"I'm sure of it. He's the best doctor on the East Coast, right?"

Wilson rubs a hand across his mouth, frowning. "I'm not sure this is a good idea." She's almost expected this response. But at the same time, she's always believed that Greg would help her out, no matter what the case, no matter what the situation. They'd loved each other. They'd do anything for each other. And House is a doctor before he's anything else. She's certain he'll be curious at the least. She hopes, now, that there's been enough time for him to stop feeling vengeful. She had hoped (vaguely) that he'd moved on. But even if he hasn't, maybe (maybe) he'll still do this for her. She needs it. Mark needs it. And Greg is the only one she trusts to do it.

"I don't have anywhere else to go." Wilson nods. This is consent.

When they part, she kisses his cheek, thanks him for the referral to Dr. Berrera, and promises to call when Berrera doesn't have a clue. Wilson sticks his hands in his pockets as she gets into her car and the engine comes to life. She thinks he might be smiling, but can't tell through the dewy windows. As she drives the two hours back to Short Hills, she tries her best to think of Mark. Of all the things that they'll do together once he's better. But all she comes up with are repeats of all the times she had with Greg.


	20. Chapter 20

a/n I'm finishing this... really. I am.

Sometimes, it's just better to take the stairs. It isn't that the building is fifty years old or that the elevator cables groan just a bit too much for his liking. It most certainly isn't that he's lightning fast and quicker than the slow moving car. Today, it isn't even the fact that the secluded staircase provides an easy escape from the asshole that signs Foreman's performance reviews. On this day, it's Foreman's seething anticipation that won't allow the elevator. This could be an emergency. And he doesn't have time for the unanticipated stops, the hobbling patients, or the slow moving lights on the top of the door.

Foreman may be a doctor, a neurologist, maybe even one of the best in his field. But by the time he gets to Mark Warner's room, there isn't a whole lot that he can do. Mark Warner can't feel his legs and the first thing Foreman thinks is I need to get House… Warner's not dying in the next five minutes, and he's not walking out the door either. So Foreman lets the nurses flood the room and steps out, moving towards the stairway, and finally (it's been two minutes since he's arrived on scene), his training kicks into gear and his brain kicks into overdrive, creating a differential for these symptoms just as fast as his feet hit the floor of the hallway.

He hasn't a clue where House has gone. It was two hours ago, maybe three, when he'd last seen his boss. Foreman had tried to tell him to lighten up on Warner while he was in the MRI, but House just kept ranting. When Warner rubbed everything in House's face, Foreman couldn't help but notice it. Just a flicker in the corner of his eye: House was hurt. It was the way he shut up, gave no response. He avoided any eye contact as he left the room, slamming the door behind him. Foreman had reached out, opened the door again, but House was moving quickly down the hall, eyes forward, feet striking the ground with intent. He clearly didn't want to be bothered, so Foreman finished the test and walked beside the gurney as the orderly pushed Warner back to his room.

Stacy had been sipping a coffee, reading over a stack of something legal, when they'd arrived. Foreman sat and talked with her, explained the tests and the scans and the next steps. He bullshit the last part because he's never sure what the next step will be. Mark had cut in through the spiel and told Stacy about House's antics in the scan. Foreman watched as she'd gasped, bewildered. But then she'd gone silent and said, "I'm sure he had his reasons…"

Foreman isn't sure quite sure what to make of Stacy. Her and House. He's heard the story. He's never suspected House of being a shallow man- he's just self-absorbed and has limited interests. But this thing with his ex has opened up a whole new can of worms. Cameron says that House and Stacy Warner used to live together. Foreman knows (from House's lecture last week) that Stacy was the one who signed the authorization to do surgery on his leg. Having worked with House for almost a year now, Foreman has had a hard time reconciling the fact that anyone would want to voluntarily spend time with Greg House (Wilson aside). House's idea of emotional empathy and reciprocity is do what it takes to get what he needs and call it a day. Two simple ingredients necessary for a healthy relationship and House has neither. He's incompatible with almost everyone. The only question is whether it's innate in House's personality or whether it's a learned response. Either way, a true relationship shouldn't have worked.

When Foreman first heard about Stacy during House's diagnostic lecture the week before, he envisioned some morally challenged dimwitted secretary more interested in doing the smart rich doctor than actually falling in love. But he'd met Stacy Warner yesterday and she'd proved the exact opposite. She was sophisticated, pretty, intellectual, and a lawyer. Of all things, a lawyer. She could've had anyone, but somehow she'd been with Greg House.

He starts to wonder, just a bit, if House didn't change after the incident with his leg. Maybe he was a little less nasty. Maybe he had friends, girlfriends, had a booming social life and everyone liked him a little more than they do now. Maybe he was young once too. And dressed in a suit and tie and did his best to be the best, no matter the cost to his personal mottos. Maybe he used to be emotional and he learned to taper them. Maybe his experience, his leg, make him unable or unwilling to deal with insincere social graces and apologies. It's hard to imagine House being anything other than a bastard, but Foreman supposes that people change. Not always for the better.

Foreman runs up one more flight of stairs on his way to House's office and the image of House doing the same ten or fifteen years ago pops into his mind. The run makes his heart beat a little faster and sweat begins to form on his brow, but somehow he feels a little better for it. Back in the day, back when he was 16 and getting in trouble, he'd had a gym teacher take him aside. The gloves had felt bulky and unfamiliar at first, but then they became an extension, a weapon for his frustration. He's kept his skills all these years and sometimes after he goes home, he steps into the ring again or just up to the bag. But House can't do the same. Maybe the build up has caused a blockage. Foreman swings the door open, catching his breath, but his boss is nowhere to be seen. Instead of embarking on a fruitless search, Foreman makes his life a little easier. He pages House using the office phone and makes his way, slower this time, back to Mark Warner's room.

As he's walking back towards the stairs, he passes the door for the roof access and he's almost knocked over by a frantic Stacy Warner coming through the door as if being chased by the unspeakable. "Dr. Foreman!" She grabs his arm, steadying the both of them.

"You need to go see Mark. There's a problem. Where's House?"

She motions behind her, towards the door. Foreman flinches at this knowledge because it's nearing on the absurd. House can't be in the stairwell because he doesn't really do stairs. But the thumps and muttered curse that issue from within assure him that it's true. He opens the door as Stacy scurries down the hallway towards the elevator. It's interesting. Stacy and House on the roof. Alone. Cuddy had had the door to the roof locked after the incident with the patient who nearly threw himself off by accident, but Foreman figures that House managed to get a key. No one went up there for smoke breaks or any other kind of break anymore. It's off limits. Foreman can only imagine (he doesn't want to) what could've possibly happened up there. He hopes they had a good, long argument and not the illicit affair that bombards his overactive imagination. His thoughts take a right hand turn towards history instead.

That one time, Foreman thinks, that House mentioned the orderlies on the roof. It wasn't by accident or even common knowledge. House doesn't know things by accident. He finds them, seeks them out, experiences them. There's no elevator to this part of the roof, so House would have had to take the stairs and that means that House doesn't make this a habit anymore. It's another part of that time, lost or forgotten, that Foreman will never really know.

Foreman takes a look into the stairwell and watches as House takes the last two steps down. After an irritated glance, House doesn't even acknowledge his subordinate in the stairwell and Foreman gets a rare glimpse of his boss in what must be agony. Every instinct tells him to help, but experience tells him to wait it out. So he does. House heaves a heavy sigh as he takes the last step, leans against the wall, and pulls the vial of pills from his pocket with a shaking hand. "Rooftop rendezvous' are so overrated…"

"What were you doing up there?"

House wipes his brow with the palm of his hand and looks towards the hallway where Stacy is moving quickly towards the elevator. "Wild sex. Lines of coke."

Foreman rolls his eyes and decides not to pursue the issue. "Warner's lost feeling in his extremities."

House nods, nonplussed. It's hard to get House outwardly excited about something. This is as close as it comes. "Good," he says.

It takes Foreman a moment to respond: "Good? He can't feel his legs." After this many months, almost a year, Foreman still can't get used to the way House reacts and he still feels that he needs to correct, rectify, or intervene at every indiscretion. He vows never to become complacent, but feels himself already slipping.

They move together towards the elevator, where Stacy now waits, arms crossed and impatient.

"It's different, it's new. New tells us something."

Stacy gives up on the elevator and walks hurriedly to the interior stairwell that will take her down. Foreman watches as House turns his head towards her, sighing again. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was some version of the human emotion: longing. Foreman looks away. He doesn't want to see this.

Three days later, Mark Warner's been diagnosed and given a treatment regimen that's months long. Foreman has settled back into reading journal articles and devising some of his own. He comes across an article that House wrote three years ago, but something doesn't quite make sense to him. So he goes directly to the source, but someone is already there.

She's leaning against him a little, her face pressed into the side of his neck and his eyes are closed. It's the most human thing Foreman has ever seen House do. This is beyond longing. This is pain and Foreman's stomach drops out. He thinks of his mother, that last embrace all those years ago when he left his old home for good. There was something cathartic about it then- stepping out on the ledge and making his own way away from the confines and the history. But he always expects that one day, he'll have a new home to go to. He's good at relationships. And one day, Foreman will marry, have kids. He knows this.

On the other hand, the one chance at "home" House had is Stacy. Foreman sees that now. House's reaction to her tells Foreman all he needs to know. House doesn't care about people, but he does care about her and there's something extrodinarily sensitive in the way he treats Stacy, the way she responds to him. Foreman can imagine the two of them together now: sipping wine on a couch before a flickering television screen, ranting on about some incompetence over the hum of the audio; out on the green as House slams his clubs into the turf and Stacy rolls her eyes and hands him a drink; driving into work, sated and comfortable, if not the happy that defines middle America Rockwell always wanted. Stacy had left House and that was supposed to be better for the both of them. Leaving home is supposed to give you a clean slate, to propell you forwards. Maybe House had a hard time getting the last of the grease off of his, but now it's all dirtied up again with Stacy back as the main course and a sloppy side dish marring the surface in the form of Mark Warner. This is not a good idea and it cannot possibly end well. Suddenly on edge, Foreman backs away, out of the direct line of sight. He turns when Stacy does. He was never here


	21. Chapter 21

She's climbing artificial stairs in a cramped gym on the top floor of the athletic club. Her hands are set, white gripped around the bars in front of her and a red electronic read-out displays her progress towards the inevitable goal of "stop." Sweat has built and dropped from her exertion reddened skin and she works tandem to the pounding rhythm in her headphones, trying to forget, trying to move past, but it isn't working.

Greg has always been an asshole, born and bred, for whatever reason: his genes, his family, his will. But this stunt has gone beyond the realms of decency. Stacy doesn't know why she's surprised. Greg, for all intents and purposes, has always been extreme and has always put his needs before the need for moral righteousness. To invade her privacy though, to steal from her private counselor, and use her innermost fears loosen her up. She'd been convinced that he understood her and in being so, had nearly been persuaded that she'd made a wrong choice, that she belonged with him instead of Mark. Moreover, she'd been reminded of how good it could be with Greg. And his admission was a reminder of the opposite. Greg was the most difficult person she'd ever met.

Even before the fiasco with his leg, he was always stubborn, always getting it his way, however he had to do it. There were patients that he'd badgered into treatment. Several had even taken him to court over his antics. And there'd been the time that he'd been arrested. All those, however, were in the name of patient care. Doing what was right to save the patient's life.

There had been times, though, that he'd nearly driven her away. A month after she'd moved in with him, she got up in the morning and he was gone. There was no phone call, no note, no explanation. She'd found out from James that Greg had called in sick to work. She'd almost filed a missing persons report, but she found his overnight backpack gone, along with his toothbrush and razor. For three days, she'd gone to work, told everyone he was sick, and she_ had_ _not_ worried about it. On the fourth day, she came home from work and he was asleep on their couch in his jeans, his backpack, still zipped up, next to the hallway closet. Even asleep, she could see the smudges beneath his eyes. Initially, she couldn't help the swelling of sympathy in her belly. He looked exhausted. But then she'd grabbed his hand and seen the two bruises marring the crook of his elbow. Pinpricks.

"Greg." She'd stood then, crossing her arms. "Greg!"

His eyes opened, bleary at first.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Work…" He shut his eyes, turned his head on the pillow.

"You called in sick."

"From the hospital. Still working though."

"Working on what?" She hadn't yet been ready to accept the possibility that he was even crazier than she'd heard.

"Projects."

"Greg…"

"Trust me."

"You can't just disappear…"

"Sorry." He rolled over and was asleep again before she could tell him she was going to leave. So she didn't.

She'd thought about it for a few days, sleeping in the bed while he took the couch. They didn't talk. He'd gone back to work after two days, she'd decided to stay after four days, mostly because she wasn't sure where else she was going to go. She wasn't going to leave… yet. He'd never told her exactly where he'd gone, or what he'd done. But almost six months to the day, she'd spotted a letter in the mail from University of Maryland's School of Medicine. She'd steamed the letter open and found a letter thanking him for his participation, telling him how to get detailed information regarding the experiment, and a check for two thousand dollars. She'd sealed the letter back up and drank a glass of wine, wondering where the money would go. It had been six months and their relationship was on the upward. She didn't want to push it, so she didn't ask. He didn't disappear ever again, but there were other things. She came to an understanding that he was going to do these things. He came to understanding that she would expect them.

The Stairmaster begins slowing and Stacy grips the towel on the rail and wipes the sweat off her face. As her heartbeat slows and the sweat dries, she calms, relaxes as endorphins from the workout flood her body. Along with them, she remembers the days when Greg would come bounding in from a run, alleviated from his sometimes cynical, depressive demeanor by the endorphins. How does he manage that side of himself now? There's no peace for her in that line of thought, and she can't blame him. It's her fault too. She still loves him, or at least loved who he used to be. She's willing to accept his motions toward reunion for a reason.

As the machine stops, she lowers her head, pulls off her headphones, and sighs. It isn't easy, this thing between them. But it doesn't have to be this difficult. All she has to do is pretend none of it matters and just do her job.

Ten minutes later, her shoulders and neck relax against the cedar planks of the sauna. Thick, luxurious steam fills her nostrils and she's thinking of what she and Mark will have for dinner, the malpractice suit against Johnson, and calling their landlord about the water heater. She misses the house in Short Hills and longs for the day when they can go back to it and its warmth, hardwood floors, and lush greenery. She misses the gas stove.

"Chase and House are getting sued."

Her reverie is broken by the matter-of-fact staccato of Lisa Cuddy, but Stacy keeps her eyes closed. She'd nearly forgotten that she'd invited Cuddy to join her. The company sounded good at the time, but now it's an annoyance. Her workout has almost been for nought. Her anger rises again and she hugs the towel closer to her chest.

"Maybe a lawsuit will keep him occupied for a while."

"Patient's family hasn't filed yet. We'll need a preliminary settlement and probably a disciplinary. See if they take the bait." She senses the shift in the air as Cuddy sits on the bench beside her and there's a soft _thunk_ as her head rests against the wall.

"Uh huh."

"I need you to walk them through this."

"How many times has House been through this?" Stacy opens her eyes and tilts her neck to look at Cuddy a moment. Her lips are pinched, her hair wet from her work-out and the steam in the room. She looks different with no make-up, older, wiser. "You and I both know that House can walk_ himself _through this."

"And he'll be sued for a million bucks and lose his job if he does. I need your schmoozing to work for us, not against him. And Chase has never been through this."

"I'll work with Chase."

Stacy feels Cuddy's resigned sigh and tries to slip back to that peaceful place without Greg House.

"I thought you two were getting along?"

"We're not."

"You've worked together when you were fighting before…"

It's been a long time, Stacy thinks. And even then, her participation was limited by the simple fact that she shared an address with the defendant. She'd assisted with the case, provided support when House had reached over ethical boundaries and received gratitude followed by anger. It had happened to coincide with yet another fallout between them. She'd turned the tables on him and disappeared for a night. It was harmless, a getaway, but she used it every way she could to get back at him. Of course, back then make-ups were the best part. Now there's nothing but anger and more anger. Blame usually, at the end of it.

"It's not the same," Stacy says, just a bit wistful. She regrets it immediately. How had that tone slipped into the conversation?

Cuddy gives a huffed laugh. "It'll never be the same. You can't do this job if you can't deal with him."

"Fine."

"Fine, you're quitting. Or fine, you'll do it?"

There's really no option, Stacy realizes. And she realizes that this is how it's always been.


	22. Chapter 22

She can tell that the stairs to his apartment still give him trouble- despite it having been seven years since he'd lost full use of his leg. It would probably always give him trouble, maybe even more as he ages, as he gets old and frail. He's frail already, she can see that now. His blustery character makes her forget that he is a vulnerable man, subject to wild swings of melancholy and giddiness. It's this human instability that she fell in love with, this glimmer that makes her want him all the more. He's something of a cocky bastard, but she is a female and he has the capability to turn her legs to Jello. He's not like Mark- Mark is the rock, the confidant, the stoic, solid man. House is something else that is altogether indescribable except in melodramatic romance novels. He's the guy that she shouldn't have given a second glance. But here she is outside of his apartment, moving towards something she definitely shouldn't be doing. His hand is too tight on the handle of his cane and he whispers a curse as the tip nearly slips on a patch of errant ice that the salt hasn't yet melted. She catches herself staring and then he catches her too. House looks back over his shoulder as he pushes through the first entryway into the building.

"You're not backing out on me are you?" His brows lift, worried, a little cautious in that way that he always denies.

Stacy barely gave it a second thought when he came to her a little less than an hour before. She was done for the day. Her normal concentration levels were broken through by rememberance of his mouth on her's, her fingertips raking over pectorals. The tension was insurmountable except by one method and his offer was the pebble that finally broke through the already fractured glass of her inhibition. Her answer was an unequivocal _yes_. She'd craved him since Baltimore, since she'd started blaming herself for Mark's condition just as much as she blamed herself for Greg's. And he was always there, in her face, the scent of his detergent and his soap invading her senses, reminding her body what she'd been missing and what she'd done.

In the weeks after the infarction, he'd needed help everywhere. She remembers easing him into the Wilson's bathtub, rubbing at his bared shoulders, still tense with pain, washing his hair and asking him if he didn't want to shave, or to maybe take the edge off in some other way. They had most of the day before their hosts would be back. Her hand had wandered down, but he'd slapped it away, turning his face to the tiled wall. It was the first time, but not the last, that he would refuse her. After the infarction, he took what he needed and rarely expected her to follow.

Maybe that is the difference now. Maybe this selfishness has prevailed. Maybe he's just too tired to reciprocate. He won't be tonight- not when he's trying to win her over. She knows he will give as good as he gets. But for how long?

She shakes her head, bites her lip and holds the thick wool coat around her waist, keeping the chill of New Jersey winter from seeping past the fabric to her skin. She couldn't back out now if she wanted, not with the promise of what lay ahead for them tonight. She's missed him.

In a gesture that has never been characteristic, he takes her coat at the door, pulling it over her shoulders and tossing it on the couch. His arms encircle her from behind and she feels warm breath on her neck, but he stands motionless. She sighs and lets herself lean a little. They have all night and he makes it worth her time.

It's after midnight when she wakes, her shoulder cramping from lying on her side. She's still pressed up against him and his forearm rests on her waist, the hand limp in sleep. She shifts, feels his left leg slide between hers and his arm tightens. For a moment, she is sure he wants her again but then there's a whispered groan and he rolls to his back, leaving her cold.

"You okay?" She asks. Her mind recoils at her words, wants to take them back. He hasn't been okay in a long time.

"Yeah."

Stacy breathes a sigh of relief. "What do you want to do?"

"Thought that was obvious," he grumbles and she can tell he's irritated anyway. He's sparing her direct commentary in favor of another roll in the hay. He won't fight her now. He shifts again and she hears the pop of the pill bottle as he opens it and dumps a few into his hand. She wonders if they help him with this aspect of his life. Medication has its side effects and Greg is not immune. She thinks he may have mixed in another sort of pill tonight and she could care less.

"One day soon, we're going to have to talk about this," she sighs, turning towards him. But for now, she's content not to. She wraps a hand around him again and reaches downwards, her intention clear. They have to make use of their time now.

"But not now."

"No. Not now."

This time is slower, easier on them both now that the tension is released. They lay silent for an hour afterwards, catching their breath and letting their hands roam in an effort to see if the third time is the charm.

The phone intercepts the movement of his hands and Greg shifts, almost angry, to answer it. If she stays here, it won't be the last time this happens. House is his job. The intensity of a life forsaken or a life saved; the repeated assertion that life, physical and real, is the only thing that matters to him. That it continue, that disease be fought and destroyed. She wonders if he fights his own at all, or if he only projects his fight onto everyone else that he saves.

She listens to his conversation for a moment and then he rolls to face her, picking up where they left off. They'll have time for conversation later.

When they do meet, there is no conversation. He's always been direct with her and their predicament is no exception. There's a choice to be made. No matter how many times she practices the conversation with Mark, it never comes out right. When it comes to logic, she normally chooses the right path, but this time she's willing to take a chance. When House comes to her, she's made her decision and he's reversed his. She goes home and lets Mark wrap his arms around her instead.


	23. Chapter 23

Wilson looks down at his feet, his hands on his hips, and says "The stairway to the roof is unlocked."

Black and white blurs of conceit spin in front of her face for a moment. Cuddy pauses in the process of scanning the document, her hand stilling on the red-tipped pen. She forces her attention from the paper and looks him over. He's rumpled- as rumpled as Wilson gets anyway. His shirt is not so nicely tucked anymore and his tie is an inch too far to the right. His cheeks are too red, like he's been standing outside for a while, or he's coming down with something. A rumpled Wilson, though, is something of concern if she pays attention long enough. Nine times out of ten it's about House and eight of those times, avoidance is a good enough solution to the problem. The only worry is in the anticipation. She never really imagined what hiring House would force her to do, but she's grown accustomed and she knows when she's really needed and when she can blow it off.

"And?" Cuddy looks back down to the bound paper in front of her, its self-righteous phrases, its strict format. Everything is forced and she wishes that it was easier. It never is.

It's supposed to be locked. It's dangerous up there."

Why should he care? She asks him and he shrugs, says: "I thought you should know."

He leaves, closing the door behind him. She looks at the flashing red light on the phone, the voicemail she'd listened to as she was trying to focus on the proposal she's editing for Obstetrics. She hadn't wanted to answer the phone and was glad she didn't. Stacy's message had been brief and to the point. Her resignation was in her inbox. Maybe they could get a coffee a little later. She was going back. Soon. There was nothing in the tone of her voice that indicated anything was wrong. The fact that House wasn't mentioned at all was the interesting part.

Cuddy puts her pen down and closes the packet in front of her. It's nearing 8PM anyway and it's been a long day. She's tired and she needs to get to the gym before heading home. She slips the packet into her briefcase, puts on her coat, and heads for the door. She reaches the reception desk and as she glances towards Rebecca to wave goodbye, she sees only a cracked fence of curiosity looming before her. Cursing Wilson, House, and herself, she can't help but go to it instead of to her waiting car. By the time she has turned and hit the button for the elevator, its not only curiosity, but concern that drives her towards the roof.

Her feet already ache from wearing her heels all day, but she climbs the concrete stairs anyway, feeling the cold rush of winter air blowing into the cracks. She hopes Wilson really was talking about orderlies because she doesn't know what to do if it's House up here, moping for one reason or another, facing down his demons or whatever he calls them. She doesn't know how to handle House the human when she's got no leverage.

The wind helps her to push the door open. It is, indeed, unlocked, but there are no orderlies and the only cigarettes are weeks, if not months, old. No one has been up here in a while. Her eyes slowly adjust to the dim orange lighting and she withdraws her keys from her pocket, preparing to lock up.

"You haven't called the negotiation squad yet, have you?"

The keys drop out of her hands onto the ground. Her right hand flies up to her chest to cover the pounding in her chest. Adrenaline surges and then settles into her veins, unpurged. "Jesus, House..." she gasps, carefully squatting down to get her keys. When she stands back up, he's watching her and she gives him a disappointed stare in return.

"I haven't prepared my list of demands. But at least now, I have a hostage."

She keeps her stare for a moment, and pockets her keys while she assesses the situation. He's on the ledge, his feet straight out in front of him, back resting against the brick. There's a few moments, split seconds that she imagines him falling off of it, flailing wildly as he plunders to his death. She should be laughing at the image because it's amusing and it would be relief to some extent, but her heart is still racing and she doesn't know how to keep him from jumping. She takes a step closer and that's when she realizes that the ledge only drops ten feet down to the next floor. There is minimal risk and she feels the knot of tension leaving her shoulders. The pounding in her chest slows.

"If you were going to jump, you would've done it already." She walks closer to him and puts her briefcase against the wall. With her arms crossed, protecting her from brisk air, she faces him directly. "What are you doing up here?"

"What are _you_ doing up here?"

"Security was doing an alarm test. The door was unlocked." It's a lie and not a good one.

He sighs and his head bumps against the brick wall. A wary grin soothes the lines around his lips. He's so sure of himself. "If that was true, they'd be up here instead of you. Wilson sent you."

There's a moment here when she doesn't know what to say, how to say it. She should say she's sorry about it, about his loss, but he won't take that well. He's done it to himself really. She could tell him to look on the bright side of things, but all there's left for him is a tiny glimmer really, a distant beacon hidden in the fog of past indiscretions and present pain. He's nearing fifty and though she herself feels some of these same things, this same loss of a life, she thinks she may still have time while his is wearing too thin. Her arms come uncrossed and a hand goes to her eyes, rubbing the tiredness out of them. She leans against the wall and sighs.

"House..."

"Don't."

He pulls his suit coat closer to his body, shielding himself. He must be cold. It's nearing the freezing point. There may be snow tonight.

"You of all people should realize that... it was a bad idea, House. You've both changed. She's married and you can't..."

He shakes his head, turns away from her and glances out into the city. Eastern seaboard lights illuminate the cloud-enshrouded sky. There are no stars save for the lights of office buildings and remnants of Christmas decorations left on far too long. She stops and looks out into the lights with him. "I'm sorry."

"Well, it is _your _fault."

This is him. Deflect and blame. There is no pain that is his own. There's probably nothing she can say or do to get him past this, but she's willing to face him at least, to make him get to work and to get him off of this roof so she can lock up and go home.

"What did she say to you?"

"Nothing." His voice uplifts. It's stoic, yet grim, logical. She isn't sure whether it's a lie or not. She has no way to tell.

"She's leaving."

"Yes."

"And you wanted her to stay."

"No point in that really. I'm way too busy to have to put up with..." His voice fades away and for a moment, she thinks it falters.

"If you break down right now, I'm pushing you off this roof." She says it half joking, but he barely responds. His hands shift in his lap. He looks down for a moment and then up at her again. He once again becomes solid and unwavering. Maybe it was an illusion. The wind. "She's got what she needs. I have what I need. Lucky for you..." The tone shifts to suggestive and this time, she allays it with work.

"I just lost the best legal advice this hospital has had in five years, House."

"What do you want, Cuddy?" His tone, tired, makes her think she should end this sooner rather than later.

"I want you off the roof for starters."

"That's it? No _stop being miserable, House_. No _you have to take risks, House._ No wisdom from the realm of the Venutians?"

She'd like to. Wisdom, though, that comes from experience- from failure and success. She's had neither really- not what he needs. A series of passing relationships, a passing life, caught in the ebbs and flows, the constant press of more knowledge, of more pressure, more responsibility. She is responsible, but not for this. Not for his misery. Not really. At least she can blame that on the woman who has left him. Again. She is responsible for locking this door, disallowing him and everyone else from risking their lives up on this cold roof.

Cuddy feels her lips turn into a bit of a frown, and her eyes well for a moment. She's glad it's dark out here. In her silence, he moves. He swings his legs down, careful of his right one, and moves towards the stairway. "You coming?" His tone is carefully optimistic, a sudden departure or a cover-up.

She picks up her briefcase from where she's dropped it and turns towards him with a sigh of relief. "About time..."

He opens the door for her and she walks ahead of him. Just in case he slips.


End file.
